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'W^a^^p^^U'/^y 



POEMS, 



PLAYS AND ESSAYS, 



oLr^ER GOLDSMITH, M.B. 



AN ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE AND WEITINaSi 



TO WHICH IB ADDED 



A CRITICAL DISSERTATION ON HIS POETRY. 

BY JOHN AIKIN, M. D. 



BOSTON: 
PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY, 

110 Washington Street. 

1853. 









7/6/2 1 



^^'-^ 



CONTENTS 



P^ 



Dr. Aikin's Memoirs of the Author 
Remarks on the Poetry of Dr. Goldsmith 

Dr. Aikin 

Verses on the death of Dr. Goldsmith . 



vij 



by 



. XXXIV 

I 



POEMS. 

The Traveller ; or, a Prospect of Society 9 

The Deserted Village 23 

The Hermit, a Ballad 37 

The Haunch of Venison, to Lord Clare . . 43 

Retaliation 47 

Postscript . .... 52 

The Double Transformation, a Tale . • 53 
The Gift : to Iris, in Bow-street, Covent- 

garden . . . • . • .56 

An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog . . 56 
The Logicians Refuted: Imitation of Deai 

Swift 57 

A new Simile in the Manner of Swift . . 59 



J- — , . — . — , , — 

«v CONTENTS. 


Page 




Description of an Author's Bed-chamber 


. 61 




A Prologue by the Poet Laberius, whom 




Caesar forced upon the Stage 


. 61 




An Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize 


. 62 




On a ueautiful Youth struck blind by Lightnii 


,g 63 




The Clown's Reply . . . 


. 63 




Epitaph on Dr. Parnell 


. 63 




Epitaph on Edward Pardon 


. 64 




Stanzas on the taking of Quebec 


64 




Stanzas on Woman .... 


64 




Sonnet ...... 


05 




Songs 


65 




Song, intended to have been sung in the Co- 






medy of She Stoops to Conquer 


66 




Prologue to Zobeide, a Tragedy 


66 




Epilogue to the Comedy of the Sisters . 


67 




Epilogue spoken by Mrs. Buikley and Miss 






Catley . . "... 


69 




Epilogue intended for Mrs. Buikley 


71 




Epilogue, spoken by Mr. Lee Lewes 


73 




Threnodia Auguotalis ..... 


75 




The Captivity : an Oratorio 


84 




Lines attributed to Dr. Goldsmith 


95 




PLAYS. 






The Good-natured Man, a Comedy 


96 




She Stoops to Conquer, or the Mistakes of a 






Night 

I ? 


171 





CONTENTS. 



ESSAYS. 

Pa2:e 
Introduction . •- . . . .251 

Love and Friendship, or the Story of Alcander 
and Septimus, taken from a Byzantine 

Historian ...... 254 

On Happiness of Temper .... 258 

Description of various Clubs .... 262 

On the Policy of concealing our Wants, or 

Poverty 270 

On Generosity and Justice ... - 275 

On the Educatioa of k outh . . . 279 

On the Versatility of popular Favour . . 289 

Specimen of a Blagazine in Miniature . . 293 

Beau Tibbs ; a Character .... 296 

Beau Tibbs — continued .... 299 

On the Irresolution of Youth . . . 303 

On Mad Dogs 306 

On the increased Love of Life with Age . 310 

Ladies' Passion for levelling Distinction of 

Dress 313 

Asem, an Eastern Tale; or, the Wisdom of 
Providence in the moral Government of 

the World 318 

On the English Clergy, and popular Preachei^ 326 
On the Advantages to be derived from sending 

a judicious Traveller into Asia . . 330 
Reverie at the Boar's-head Tavern, in East- 
cheap . , . . . 334 



vi CONTENTS. 

Page 

On Quack Doctors ... . 347 

Adventures of a Strolling Player . • . 350 

Rules to be observed at a Russian Assembly . 360 

The Genius of Love, an Eastern Apologue . 361 

Distresses of an English disabled Soldier . 365 
On the Frailty of Man . . . .371 

On Friendship ...... 373 

Follv of attempting to learn Wisdom in Re- 
tirement ...... 376 

Letter, by a Common Council-man at the time 

of the Coronation ..... 379 

A secona Letter, describing the Coronation . 3fl2 



MEMOIRS 

or 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH, M.B. 

BY DR. AIKIN. 



It cannot be said of this ornament of British literature, 
as has been observed of most authors, that the me- 
moirs of his life comprise little more than a history of 
his writings. Goldsmith's life was full of adventure ; 
and a due consideration of his conduct from the out- 
set to his death will furnish many useful lessons to 
those who live after him. 

Our Author, the third son of Mr. Charles Gold- 
smith, was born at Elphin, in the county of Roscom- 
mon, Ireland, on the 29th of November, 1728. His 
father, who had been educated at Dublin college, was 
a clergyman of the established church, and had 
married Anne, daughter of the Rev. Oliver Jones, 
master of the diocesan school of Elphin. Her mother's 
brother, the Rev. Mr. Green, then rector of Kil- 
kenny West, lent the young couple the house in 
which our author was born ; and at his death Mr. 
Green was succeeded in his benefice by his clerical 
vrotegee. 

Mr. Charles Goldsmith had five sons and two 
daughters. 

Henry, the eldest son (to whom the poem of ' The 
Traveller' is dedicated), distinguished himself greatly 
both at school and at college ; but his marriage at 
nineteen years of age appears to have been a bar to 
his preferment in the church ; and v/e believe that he 
never ascended above a curacy. 



nii AlKIN'S MEMOIiiS OF 

The liberal education which the father bestowed 
upon Henry, had deducted so much from a narrow 
income, that when Oliver was born, after an interval 
of seven years from the birth of the former child, no 
prospect in life appeared for him, but a mechanical or 
mercantile occupation. 

The rudiments of instruction he acquired from a 
schoolmaster in the village, who had served in Queen 
Anne's w&r-s as a quarter-master in that detachment 
of the army which was sent to Spain. Being of a 
communicative turn, and finding a ready hearer in 
young Oliver, this man used frequently to entertain 
him vi'ith what he called his ad-ventures ; nor is it 
without probability supposed, that these laid the foun- 
dation of that wandering disposition which became 
afterward S9 conspicuous in his pupil. 

At a very early age Oliver began to exhibit indica- 
tions of genius ; for when only seven or eight years 
old he would often amuse his father and mother v.'ith 
poetical attempts which attracted much notice frora 
them and th«r friends ; but his infant mind does not 
appear to have been much elated by their approba- 
tion ; for after his verses had been admired they were 
without regret committed by him to the flames. 

He was now taken from the tuition of the quondam 
soldier, to be put under that of the Rev. Mr. Griffin, 
schoolmaster of Elphin ; and was at the same time 
received into the house of his father's brother, John 
Goldsmith, Esq. of Ballyoughter, near that town. 

Our author's eldest sister Catliarine (afterwards 
married to Daniel Hodson, Esq. of Lishoy, near 
Ballymahon) relates, that one evening, when Oliver 
was about nine years of age, a company of young 
people of both sexes being assembled at his uncle's, 
the boy was required to dance a hornpipe, a youth 
undertaking to play to him on the fiddle. Being but 
lately out of the smalUpox, which had much dis- 
figured his countenance, and his bodily proportions 
being short and thick, the young musician thought to 
shew his wit by comparing our hero to /Esop dancing; 



and having harped a little too long, as the caperer 
thought, on this bright idua, tlje latter suddenly 
stopped, and said, 

Our herald hath proclaim'd this sayjng-, 

' See jEsop dancing',' — and his Monkey playing'. 

This instance of early wit, we are told, decided his 
fortune ; for, frc.n that time, it was determined to sen<i 
him to the university ; and some of his relations, who 
were in the church, ofFered to contribute towards the 
expense, particularly the Rev. Thomas Contarine, 
rector of Kilmore, near Carrick-upon-Shannon, wiio 
had married an aunt of Oliver's. The Rev. Mr. 
Green also, whom we have before mentioned, liberal- 
ly assisted in this friendly design. 

To further the purpose intended, he was now re- 
moved to Athlone, where he continued about two 
years under the Rev. Mr. Campbell ; who being then 
obliged by ill health to resign the charge, Oliver was 
sent to the school of the Rev. Patrick Hughes, at 
Edgeworthstown, in the county of Longford.* 

Under this gentleman he was prepared for the uni- 
versity ; and on the 11th of June, 1744, was ad- 
mitted a Sizer of Trinity college, Dublin,! under the 
tuition of the Rev. Mr. Wilder, one of the fellows, 



* We are told, tliat in his last journey to this school, he had an ad- 
A'entiire wliich is thoiiglit to have sussested ilie plot of liis coniedj 
of * She Stoops to Conquer.* — Some friend h:id i^iven him a j^uinea ; 
and in his way to Edgeworthstown, which was about twenty miles from 
his father's house, he had amused himself the whole day with viewing 
the gentlemen's seats on the road; and at nightfall found himself in 
the small town of Ardagh. Here he inquired for the Lest house in 
the place, meaning the best inn; but his informant, taking the ques- 
tion in its literal sense, shewed him to the house of a private gentle- 
man ; where, calling for somebody to take his horse to tbe stable, our 
hero alighted, and was shewn into the parlour, being supposed to have 
come on a visit to the master, whom he found sittiuir by the fire. This 
gentleman soon discovered Oliver's mistake; but being a man of 
humour, and learning from him the name of his father (wlioni he 
knew), he favoured the deception. Oliver ordered a good supper, aud 
invited his landlord and landlady, with their daughters, to part;ike of 
it; he treated them with a bottle or two of wine, and, at going t" in d, 
ordered a hot cake to be prepared for his breakfast: nor was it till he 
v,a« about to depart, and called for his bill, that he discovered liia 
mistake. 

+ The celebrated Edmund Burke was at the same time a coUcsjan 
tbere. 

a2 



X. AIKIN'S MEMOIRS OF 

who was a man of harsh temper and violent passions ; 
and Oliver being of a thoughtless and gay turn, :t 
cannot be surprising that they should soon be dis- 
satisfied with each other. * 

Oliver, it seems, had one day imprudently invited 
a party of both sexes to a supper and ball in his 
rooms ; which coming to the ears of his tutor, the 
latter entered the place in the midst of their jollity, 
abused the whole company, and inflicted manual cor- 
rection on Goldsmith in their presence. 

This mortification had such an effect on the mind 
of Oliver, that he resolved to seek his fortune in some 
place where he should be unknown : accordingly, he 
sold his books and clothes, and quitted the university; 
but loitered about the streets, considering of a destina- 
tion, till his money was exhausted. With a solitary 
shilling in his pocket he at last left Dublin ; by ab- 
stinence he made this sum last him three days, and 
then was obliged to part, by degrees, with the clothes 
oflP his back : in short, to such an extremity was, he 
reduced, as to find a handful of gray-peas, given him 
by a girl at a wake, the most comfortable repast that 
he had ever made. 

After numberless adventures in this vagrant state, 
he found his way home, and was replaced under his 
morose and merciless tutor ; by whom he was again 
exposed to so many mortifications, as induced an ha- 
bitual despondence of mind, and a total carelessness 
about his studies ; the consequence of which was, that 
he neither obtained a scholarship, nor became a can- 
didate for the premiums. On the 25th of May, 1747, 
he received a public admonition, for having assisted 
other collegians in a riot occasioned by a scholar 
having been arrested, quod seditionifuvisset, et tumuL- 
tuantibas opem tulisset ; in this case, however, he ap- 
pears to have fared better tlian some of his com- 
panions, who were expelled the university. On the 
15th of June following he was elected one of the ex- 
hibitioners on the foundation of Erasmus Smyth ; but 
vras not admitted to the degree of Baclielor of Arts till 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. xl 

February, 1749, which was two years after the usual 
period. 

Oliver's father being now dead, his uncle Contarine 
undertook to supply his place, and wished him to 
prepare for holy orders. This proposal not meeting 
with the young man's inclination, Mr. Contarine next 
resolved on sending him to London, that he might 
study law in the Temple. Whilst at Dublin, how- 
ever, on his way to England, he fell in with a sharper, 
who cheated him at play of 501. which had been pro- 
vided for his carriage, &c. He returned, and received 
his uncle's forgiveness : it was now finally settled that 
he should make physic his profession ; and he de- 
parted for Edinburgh, where he settled about the 
latter end of the year 1752. Here he attended the 
lectures of Dr. Monroe and the other medical pro- 
fessors ; but his studies were by no means regular; 
and an indulgence in dissipated company, with a 
ready hand to administer to the necessities of whoever 
asked him, kept him always poor. 

Having, ho\ve\er, gone through the usual courses 
. of physic and anatomy in the Scottish university. Gold- 
smith was about to remove to Leyden to complete his 
studies ; and his departure was hastened, by a debt to 
Mr. Barclay, a tailor in Edinburgh, which he had 
imprudently made his own by becoming security for a 
fellow-student, who, either from want of principle or 
of means, had failed to pay it : for this debt he was 
arrested ; but was released by the kindness of Dr. 
Sleigh and Mr. Laughlin Maclaine, whose friendship 
he had acquired at the college. 

He now embarked for Bourdeaux on board a Scotch 
vessel called the St. Andrew's, Capt. John Wall, 
master. The ship made a tolerable appearance ; and, 
as another inducement to our hero, he was informed 
that six agreeable passengers were to be his company. 
They had been but two days at sea, however, when 
a storm drove them into Newcastle-upon-Tyne, and 
the passengers went ashore to refresh after the fatigue 
of their voyage. ' Seven men and I (says Gold- 



xii AIKIN'S MEMOIRS OF 

smith) were on shore the following evening; but as 
we were all very merry, the room door burst open, 
and there entered a Serjeant and twelve grenadiers, 
with their bayonets screwed, who put us all under the 
King's arrest. It seems, my company were Scotch- 
men in the French service, and had been in Scotland 
to enlist soldiers for Louis XV. I endeavoured all I 
could to prove my innocence ; however, I remained 
in prison with the rest a fortnight, and with difficulty 
got off even then. But hear how Providence inter- 
posed in my favour : the ship, which had set sail for 
Bourdeaux before I got from prison, was wrecked at 
the mouth of the Garonne, and every one of the crew 
drowned.' — Fortunately, there was a ship now ready 
at Newcastle, for Holland, on board of which he em- 
barked, and in nine days reached Rotterdam; whence 
he travelled by land to Leyden. 

Here he resided about a year, studying anatomy 
under 'Albinus, and chymistry under Gambius ; but 
here, as formerly, his little property vvas destroyed by 
play and dissipation ; and he is actually believed to 
have set out on his travels Vi-ith only one clean shirt, 
and not a guilder in his purse, trusting wholly to Pro- 
vidence for a subsistence. 

It is generally understood, that m the history of his 
Philosophic Vagabond (Vicar of Wakefield, chap. 
XX.) he has related many of his own adventures ; and 
that when on his pedestrian tour through Flanders and 
France, as he had some knowledge of music, he turned 
what had formerly been bis amusement into a present 
means of subsistence. ' I passed (says he) among 
the harmless peasants of Flanders, and among such 
of the French as were poor enough to be very merry; 
for 1 ever found them sprightly in proportion to their 
wants. Whenever I approached a peasant's house 
towards nightfall, I played on the German flute one 
of my most merry tunes, and that procured me not 
only a lodging, but subsistence for the next day. 1 
once or twice attempted to play for people of fashion ; 
but they always- thought my performance odious, anJ 



OLIVJiR GOLDSMITH. xih 

never rewarded me even with a trifle. This was to 
me the more extraordinary ; as whenever I used in 
better days to play for company, when playing was 
my amusement, my music naver failed to throw them 
into raptures, and the ladies especially ; but as it was 
now my only means, it was received with contempt : 
a proof how ready the world is to under-rate those ta- 
lents by which a man is supported 1' At the different 
monasteries in his tour, especially those of his own na- 
tion, his learning generally procured him temporary 
entertainment ; and thus he made his way to Switzer- 
land, in which country he first cultivated his poetical 
talents with any particular effect; for here we find he 
wrote about two hundred lines of his ' Traveller.' 

The story which has commonly been told, of his 
having acted as travelling tutor to a young miser, is 
now thought to have been too hastily adopted from 
the aforesaid History of a Philosophic Vagabond, and 
never to have been the real situation of the author of 
that history. From Switzerland, Goldsmith proceeded 
to Padua, where he stayed six m.onths, and is by some 
supposed to have there taken his degree of Bachelor 
of Physic ; though others are of opinion, that if ever 
he really took any medical degree abroad, it was at 
Louvain.* 

After visiting all the northern part of Italy, he tra- 
velled, still on foot, through France; and, embarking 
at Calais, landed at Dover in the summer of 1756, 
unknown, as he supposed, to a single individual, and 
with not a guinea in his pocket. 

His first endeavours were, to procure employment ■ 
as an usher in some school ; but the want of a recom- 
mendation as to character and ability rendered his ef- 
forts for some time fruitless ; and how he subsisted is 
not easy to guess. At length, however, it appears, 
he procured an usher's place ; but in what part the 
school was situated, or how long he continued in it, 

* In .769, it is certain, he was admitteii M.B. at Oxford, wliich 
university be visited in February, in con;pany wiUi Dr. Joliuson. 



itiv AlKIN'S MEMOISS OF 

we do not learn ; though we may form some idea of 
the uncongeniality of the place to his mind, from the 
following passage in the Philosophic Vagabond : ' I 
have been an usher at a boarding'-school ; and may I 
die but I would rather be an under-turnkey in New- 
gate. I was up early and late ; I was brow-beat by 
the master, hated for my ugly face by my mistress, 
worried by the boys within, and never permitted to 
stir out to meet civility abroad.' 

When in a fit of disgust he had quitted this academy, 
his pecuniary necessities soon became pressing; to re- 
lieve which he applied to several apothecaries and 
chymists for employment, as a journeyman ; but here 
his threadbare appearance, awkward manners, and the 
want of a recommendation, operated sorely to his pre- 
judice ;* till at last a chymist near Fish-street-hill, 
probably moved by compassion, gave him employ- 
ment in his laboratory, where he continued till he 
learned that his old friend Dr. Sleigh, of Edinburgh, 
was in town : on him (who had, as we have seen, 
formerly relieved him from embarrassment) Goldsmith 
waited, was kindly received, and invited to share his 
purse during his continuance in London. 

This timely assistance enabled our author to com- 
mence medical practice at Bankside, in Southwark, 
whence he afterward removed to the neighbourhood 
of the Temple; hissuccess as a physician is not known, 
but his income was very small ; for, as he used to say, 
he got very few fees, though he had abundance of 
patients. Some addition, however, he now began to 
derive from the efforts of his pen ; and it appears 
that he was for a while Avith the celebrated Samuel 
R.ichardson as corrector of the press. 

About this time he renewed his acquaintance with 



» In a letter, dated Dec. 1757, he writes thus : ' At London, yoti 
may easily imagine what difiiculties I had to encounter ; witliout friends, 
recommendatioiiR, money, or impudence ; and that in a country wliere 
bein!^ born an Irisliman was sufficient to tteep me unemployed. Many 
in such circumstances would have had recourse to the friar's cord or 
the suicide's halter. But with all my follies I had principle to resist 
the one, and resolution to combat the other.' 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. XV 

one of the young physicians whom he had known at 
Edinburgh. This was a son of the Rev. Dr. John 
Milner, a dissenting minister, who kept a classical 
school of eminence at Peckham, in Surrey. Mr. Mil- 
ner, observing Goldsmith's uncertain mode of living, 
invited him to take the charge of his father's school, 
the Doctor being then confined by illness : to this he 
consented : and Dr. Milner, in return, promised to 
exert his interest with the India Directors to procure 
for him some medical establishment in the Company's 
service. This promise he faithfully performed, and 
Goldsmith was actually appointed physician to one of 
the factories iii India in 1758. It appears, however, 
that our author never availed himself of this post,* 
but continued in Dr. Milner's academy ; and in this 
very year sold to Mr. Edward Dilly, for twenty gui- 
neas, 'The Memoirs of a Protestant condemned to the 
Galleys of France for his Religion. Written by Him- 
self. Translated from the Original, just publisned at 
the Hague, by James V/illington,' 2 vols. 12mo. 

Towards the latter end of 1758, Goldsmith happened 
to dine at Dr. Milner's table with Mr. Ralph Griffiths, 
the proprietor of The Monthly Review, who invited 
him to write articles of criticism for that respectable 
publication, on the terms of a liberal salary, besides 
board and lodging. By a written agreeieent this en- 
gagement was to last for a year ; but at the end of 
seven' or eight months it was dissolved by mutual 
consent, and Goldsmith took a miserable apartment 
in Green-Arbour-court, Little Old Bailey. t In this 
wretched hovel our author completed his ' Inquiry 
into the Present State of Polite Literature in Europe,' 
which was published in 1759, by Dodsley, and was 
well received. In October of the same year he be- 
gan 'The Bee,' a weekly publication, which termi- 

* Thong-h it is certain, that, in contemplation of g-oin;? to India, hs 
circulated Proposals lo print by Subscription ' An i ssay on tlie Pre- 
sent State of Taste and Literature in Europe,' as a means of defraying 
the expenses of liis fittinu: out for the voja^e. 

t An enprraving- of the house, illustrated by a description, was given 
m ' The European Magazine,' vol. xliii. pp. 7, 8. 



xvi AIKIN'S MKMOUIS OP 

Dated at the eighth number. About tliis time, also, 
he contributed some articles to The Critical Review, 
one of which (we believe a revievv of ' Ovid's Epistles 
translated into English verse by a Mr. Barrett, Master 
of the Grammar Scliool at Ashford, in Kent') intro- 
duced him to the acquaintance of Dr. Smollett, who 
was then editor of The British JMagazine ; and for that 
work Goldsmith wrote most of those ' Essays,' which 
were afterwards collected and published in a separate 
volume. By Dr. Smollett too he was recommended 
to some respectable booksellers, particularly to IMr. 
John Newbery, who vvell deserved the eulogium be^ 
stowed by Warburton on the trade in general, as one 
of ' the best judges and most liberal rewarders of 
literary merit.' By Mr. Newbery Goldsmith wao 
engaged at a salary of lOOZ. a-year to write for The 
Public Ledger a series of periodical papers. Tliese 
he called ' Chinese Letters ;' and they were after- 
wards collected in two volumes, under the title cf 
' The Citizen of the World.' It was soon after this 
that he commenced his acquaintance with Dr. 
Johnson. 

The important engagement with Newbery for a 
hundred pounds a-year encouraged Goldsmith to de- 
scend Break-neck-steps,* and to hire a decent apart 
ment in Wjne-Office-court, Fleet-street. Here hn 
dropped the humble Mister, and dubbed himself Docfsr 
Goldsmith. Here also he put the finishing hand to 
his excellent novel called ' The Vicar of V/akefie'd ;' 
but was, when he had done, extremely embarr?.s,sed 
in his circumstances, dunned by his landlady fo^' arr'^ars 
of rent, and not daring to stir abroad for fear of aryest : 
ill fact, she herself at length had him arrested ; he 
then summoned resolution to send a message to Dr. 
Johnson ; stating that he was in great distress, and 
begging that lie would come to him as soon as possi- 
ble. Johnson sent him a guinea, and promised to fol- 
low almost immediately. When he arrived, he found 

* A steep fli°:hJ of stairs fcommoiily so termed) leading from tha 
door of his lodj^inj-liouse in Ureoii- Arbour-court to Fleet-market. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. xvii 

Goldsmith in a violent passion with the woman of tlie 
house, but consoling himself as well as he could with 
a bottle of Madeira, which he had already purchased 
with part of the guinea. Johnson, corking the bottle, 
desired Goldsmith would be calm, and consider in 
what way he could extricate himself. The latter then 
produced his novel, as ready for the press. The 
Doctor looked into it, saw its merit, and went away 
with it to Mr. Newbery, who gave him 60/. for it; 
with this sum he returned to Goldsmith, who, with 
many invectives, paid his landlady her rent. New- 
bery, however, seems not to have been very sanguine 
in his hopes of this novel ; for he kept the JMS. by hini 
near three years unprinted: his ready purchase of it, 
probably, was in the way of a benefaction to its dis- 
tressed author, rather than under any idea of profit 
by the publication. 

Early in the year 1763, Goldsmith removed to 
lodgings at Canonbury-house, Islington, where he 
compiled several works for INIr. Newbery ; amonof 
which were, ' The Art of Poetry,' 2 vols. 12mo. ; a 
• Life of Nash ;' and a ' History of England, in a Series 
of Letters from a Nobleman to his Son.' This latter 
book was for a long time attributed to George Lord 
Lyttleton. 

In the following year he took chambers on the 
upper story of the Library stair-case in the Inner 
Temple, and began to live in a genteel style. Still, 
however, he was little known, except among the 
booksellers, till the year 1765, when he produced his 
poem called ' The Traveller ; or, A Prospect of So- 
ciety,' which had obtained high commendation from 
Dr. Johnson, who declared, ' that there had not been 
so fine a poem since the time of Pope;' yet such was 
Golds.Tiith's diffidence, that, though he had com. 
pleted it some years before, he had not courage enough 
to publish, till urged to it by Johnson's suggestions. 
This poem heightened his literary character with the 
booksellers, and introduced him to several persons of 
superior rank and talents, as Lord Nugent (afterwards 



sviii AIKIN'S MEMOIRS OF 

earr of Clare), Mr. Burke, Sir Joshua Reynolds, 
Dr. Nugent, Mr. Bennet Langton, Mr. Topham 
Beauclerc, &c. and he was elected one of the first 
members of ' The Literary Club,' which had been 
just instituted by Johnson, Burke, and Sir Joshua, 
and met at the Turk's-head, Gerard-street, Soho, every 
Friday evening. 

His pathetic ballad of ' The Hermit,' which v/as 
also published in 1765, recommended him to the 
Countess (afterwards Duchess) of Northumberland, 
who was a generous patroness of merit. In the fol- 
lowing year his ' Vicar of Wakefield' was printed, and 
universally read and admired. 

His reputation being now fairly established as a 
novelist, a poet, and a critic. Goldsmith turned his 
thoughts to the drama, and set about his comedy 
called ' The Good-natured Man.' This he first offered 
to Garrick, who, after a long fluctuation between 
doubt aud encouragement, at length declined bringing 
it forward at Drury-lane theatre; it was therefore taken 
to Covent-garden, accepted by Mr. Colman, and 
presented for the first time on the 29th of January, 
1768. It was acted nine times ; and by the profits of 
the author's three third-nights, with the sale of the 
copyright, a clear 500/. was produced. 

Witli this, and some money which he had reserved 
out of the produce of a ' Roman History,' in 2'vols. 
8vo. and other works, -he was enabled to descend from 
his attic story in the Inner Temple, and to purchase 
for 400/. and furnish elegantly, a spacious set of 
chambers on the first floor, at No. 2, Brick-court, 
Middle Temple. 

On the establishment of the Royal Academy, in 
1759, Sir Joshua Reynolds recommended Goldsmith 
- to his Majesty for the Honorary Professorship of His- 
tory, which was graciously conferred on him. In the 
following year he produced that highly-finished poem 
called ' The Deserted Village.' Previous to its pub- 
lication, we are told, the bookseller (Mr. Griffin, of 
Catherine-street, Strand) had given bim a note of a 



d= 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. xix 

hundred guineas for the copy. This circumstance 
Goldsmith mentioned soon afterwards to a friend, who 
observed that it was a large sum for so small a per- 
formance. ' In truth,' replied Goldsmith, ' I think so 
too ; it is near five shillings a couplet, which is much 
more than the honest man can afford, and, indeed, 
more than any modern poetry is worth. I have not 
been easy since I received it ; I will, therefore, go 
back, and return him his note ;' which he actually 
did : but the sale was so rapid-; that the bookseller soon 
paid him the hundred guineas, with proper acknow- 
ledgments for the generosity of his conduct. 

Soon after the appearance of the Deserted Village, 
our author paid a tribute to the memory of Dr. Parnell, 
in a Life prefixed to a new edition of his ' Poems on 
several Occasions.' In the year 1771, he produced 
his ' History of England, from the earliest Times to 
the Death of George II.' in 4 vols. 8yo. ; for which 
Mr. Thomas Davies, the bookseller, paid him 50QI. 

The Earl of Lisburne, one day at a dinner of the 
Royal Academicians, lamented to Goldsmith that he 
should neglect the muses, to compile histories and 
write novels, instead of penning poetry, with which he 
was sure to charm his readers. ' My lord,' replied our 
author, ' in courting the muses I should starve ; but 
by my other labours I eat, drink, wear good clothes, 
and enjoy the luxuries of life.' 

Goldsmith had, besides his regular works, much of 
the other business of an author by profession ; such as 
penning Prefaces and Introductions to the books of 
other writers ; some of these have been published 
among his prose works ; but, no doubt, many femaia 
at this day unknown. 

His second dramatic effort, being a comedy called 
' She Stoops to Conquer; or. The Mistakes of a Night,' 
was first presented at Covent-garden theatre, March 15, 
1773, and received with an applause fully adequate to 
the author's sanguine hopes, and contrary to the ex- 
pectations of Mr. Colman, who had not consented to 
receive the piece but at the earnest and reiterated in- 



s.:i AIKIN'S MEMOIRS OF 

Stances of many friends. What was called sentimental 
comedy had at that time got an unaccountable hold oi 
the public taste ; Kelly was subserving this un-British 
propensity by his ' False Delicacy,' &c. and Gold- 
smith's piece (which was designed by him to bring 
back the town to a relish of humour) being certainly 
in the opposite extreme, and hardly any thing else 
than a farce of five acts instead of two, Colman, and 
his actors from him, had predestined the play to con- 
demnation: when, therefore, towards the conclusion of 
the first performance, the author expressed some appre- 
hension lest one of the jokes put into the mouth of 
Tony Lumpkin should not be relished by the audience, 
the manager, who had been in fear through the whole 
piece, replied, ' D — n it. Doctor, don't be terrified at 
a squib ; why, we have been sitting these two hours 
on a barrel of gunpowder.' Goldsmith's pride was so 
hurt at this remark, that the friendship which had till 
then subsisted between him and Colman was thence- 
forth annihilated. 

The piece had -a great run, and its author cleared 
by the third-nights, and the sale of the copy, upwards 
of 8001. Dr. Jonnson said of it, ' That he knew of 
no comedy for many years that had so much exhila- 
rated an audience, that had answered so much the 
great end of comedy — the mating an audience merry.' 
It certainly added much to the author's reputation, 
and is still, with his ' Good-natured Man,' on the list 
of acting plays ; but it brought on him the envy and 
malignity of some of his contemporaries ; and in the 
London Packet of Wednesday, March 24, 1773, 
printed, for T. Evans, in Paternoster-row, appeared 
the following scurrilous epistle, evidently designed to 
injure his third-night (being the ninth representa- 
tion) ; — 

' TO DR. GOLDSMITH. 

• Vous vous noyez en vaniti. 

' Sir, — The happy knack which you have learnt of 
puffing your own compositions, provokes me to come 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. xii 
forth. You have not been the editor of newspapers 
and magazines, not to discover the trick of literary 
humbug. But the gauze is so thin, that the very 
foolish part of the world see through it, and discover 
the Doctor's monkey face and cloven foot. Your 
poetic vanity is as unpardonable as your personal. 
Would man believe it, and will woman bear it, to be 
told that for hours the great Goldsmith will stand sur- 
veying his grotesque Oranhotan's figure in a pier- 
glass? Was but the lovely H k as much en- 
amoured, you would not sigh, my gentle swain, in 
vain. But your vanity is preposterous. How will 
this same bard of Bedlam ring the changes in praise 
of Goldy ! But what has he to be either proud or 
vain of! The " Traveller" is a flimsy poem, built 
upon false principles ; principles diametrically opposite 
to liberty. What is " The Good-natured Man," but 
a poor, water-gruel, dramatic dose? What is " The 
Deserted Village," but a pretty poem of easy numbers, 
without fancy, dignity, genius, or fire"! And pray 
what may be the last speaking pantomime,* so praised 
by the Doctor himself, but an incoherent piece of 
stuff, the figure of a woman with a fisli's tail, without 
plot, incident, or intrigue? We are made to lauoh at 
stale, dull jokes, wherein we mistake pleasantry for 
wit, and grimace for humour: wherein every scene is 
unnatural, and inconsistent with the rules, the laws of 
nature, and of the drama ; viz. Two gentlemen come 
to a man of fortune's house, eat, drink, sleep, &c. and 
take it for an inn. The one is intended as' a lover to 
the daughter; he talks with her for some hours, and 
when he sees her again in a different dress, he treats 
her as a bar-girl, and swears she squinted. He abuses 
the roaster of the house, and threatens to kick him out 
of his own doors. The 'Squire, whom we are told is 
to be a fool, proves to be the most sensible bein? of 
the piece ; and he makes out a whole act by biddini^ 
his mother lie close behind a bush, persuading hei° 
that his father, her own husband, is a highwayman 

« Meaning ' She Sloops to Conquer.' 



ssii AIKiNS MEMOIRS OF 

and that he is come to cut their throats; and to give 
his cousin an opportunity to go off, he drives his 
mother over hedges, ditches, and through ponds. There 
is not, sweet sucking Johnson, a natural stroke in the 
whole play, but the young fellow's giving the stolen 
jewels to the mother, supposing her to be the landlady. 
That Mr. Colman did no justice to this piece, J 
honestly allow ; that he told all his friends it would 
be damned, I positively aver; and from such unge- 
nerous insinuations, without a dramatic merit, it rose 
to public notice ; and it is now the ton to go to see it, 
though I never saw a person, that either liked it or 
approved it, any more than the absurd plot of the 
Homes tragedy of Aionzo. Mr. Goldsmith, correct 
your arrogance, reduce your vanity, and endeavour to 
believe, as a man, you are of the plainest sort ; and 
as an author, but a mortal piece of mediocrity. 
' Brisez le miroir infidele. 
Qui vous cache la veriti. 

' Tom Tickle.' 

By one of those ' d d good-natured friends' 

who are described by Sir Fretful Plagiary, the news- 
paper containing the foregoing offensive letter was 
eagerly brought to Goldsmith, who otherwise perhaps 
had never seen or heard of it. Our hero went to the 
shop brimful of ire, and finding Evans behirfd his 
counter, thus addressed him : ' You have published 
a thing in your paper (my name is Goldsmith) re- 
flecting upon a young lady. As for myself, I do not 
mind it' — Evans at this moment stooped down, in- 
tending probably to look for a paper, that he might 
see what the enraged author meant ; when Goldsmith, 
observing his back to present a fair mark for his cane, 
laid it on lustily. The bibliopolist, however, soon de- 
fended himself, and a scuffle ensued, in which our 
author got his full share of blows. Dr. Kenrick, who 
was sitting in Evans's counting-house (and who was 
strongly suspected to have been the writer of the 
letter^, now came forward, parted the combatants, 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. xxiii 

and sent iJoIdsmith home in a coach grievously 
bruised. 

This attack upon a man in his own house furnished 
matter of discussion for some days to the newspapers ; 
and an action at law was threatened to be brought for 
the assault ; but by the interposition of friends tiie 
affair was compromised ; and on Wednesday the 31st 
of March, Goldsmith inserted the. folio wing Address 
in the Daily Advertiser ; 



' TO THE rUELIC. 

' Lest it should be supposed that I have been will- 
ing to correct in others an abuie of which 1 have been 
g-uilty myself, I beg leave to d«iclare, that in all my 
life i never wrote, or dictated, a single paragraph, 
letter, or essay, in a newspaper, except a few moral 
essays, under the character of a Chinese, about ten 
years ago, in the Ledger ; and a letter, to which 1 
signed my name, in the St. James's Chronicle. If 
the liberty of the press therefore has been abused, 1 
have had no hand in it. 

■ ' ] have always considered the press as the protec- 
tor of our freedom, as a watchful guardian, capable 
of uniting- t!ie weak against the encroachments of 
power. What concerns the public most properly ad- 
mits of a public discussion. But, of l;:te, the press 
has turned from defending public interest, to making 
inroads upon private life ; from combating the strong, 
to overwhelming the feeble. No condition is now too 
obscure for its abuse, and the protector is become the 
tyrant of the people. In this manner the freedom of 
the press is beginning to sow the seeds of its own dis- 
solution ; the great must oppose it from principle, and 
the weak from fear ; till at last every rank of mankind 
shall be found to give up its benefits, content vvitn 
Security from its insults. 

' How to put a stop to this licentiousness, by which 
all are mdiscriminately abused, and by which vice 
consequently escapes in the general censure, I am 



sxi7 AlKIN'S MEMOIRS OF 

unable to tell ; all I could wish is, that, as the law 
gives us no protection against the injury, so it should 
give calumniators no shelter after having provoked 
correction. The insults which we receive before the 
public, by being more open, are the more distressing. 
By treating them witii silent contempt, we do not pay 
a sufficient deference to the opinion of the world. By 
recurring to legal redress, we too often expose the 
weakness of the law, which only serves to increase 
our mortification by failing to relieve us. In short, 
every man should singly consider himself as a guar- 
dian of the liberty of the press, and, as far as his in- 
fluence can extend, should endeavour to prevent its 
licentiousness becoming at last the grave of its 
freedom. 

' Oliver Goldsmith.' 

Mr. Boswell having intimated to Dr. Johnson his 
suspicions that he was the real writer of this Address, 
the latter said, ' Sir, Dr. Goldsmith would no more 
have asked me to have written such a thing as that 
for him, than he would have asked me to feed him 
with a spoon, or to do any thing else that denoted his 
imbecility. I as much believe that he wrote it, as if 
I had seen him do it. Sir, had he shewn it to any 
one friend, he would not have been allowed to pub- 
lish it. lie has indeed done it very well ; but it is a 
foolish thing well done. I suppose he has been so 
much elated with the success of his new comedy, that 
he has thought every thing that concerns him must 
be of importance to the public' 

About a month after this, to oblige Mr. Quick, the 
comedian, who had very successfully exerted himself 
in the character of Tony Lurnpkin, Goldsmith, we 
believe, reduced Sedley's ' Grumbler' to a farce; 
and it was performed for Mr. Quick's benefit on the 
8th of JMay, but was never printed : indeed, some 
persons doubt whether Goldsmith did more than re- 
vise an alteration vvhich had been made by some other 
person. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. xxt 

Our author now, oddly enough, took it into hia 
head to reject the title of Doctor (witli which he had 
been self-invested), and to assume the pJain address 
of Mr. Goldsmith ; but whatever his motive M this 
might be, he could not effect it with the public, who 
to the day of his death called him Doctor; and the 
same title is usually annexed to his nunsc even now, 
though the degree of Baclielor of Physic was the 
highest ever actually conferred upon hiiri. 

After havinu compiled a History of Rome, and two 
Hi-(ories of England, he undertook, and completed in 
1773, 'A His ory of the Earth und Animated Mature,' 
in 8 vols. 8vo. winch was printed in 1774, and he re- 
ceived for it 850/. 

The emoluments which he had derived from liis 
writings for some few years past were, indeed, very 
considerable ; but were rendered useless in eft'ect, by 
an incautious liberality, which prevented his distin- 
guishing proper from improper objects of his bounty; 
and also by an unconquerable itch for gaming, a 
pursuit in which his impatience of temper, and his 
want of skill, wholly disqualified him for succeeding. 

His last production, ' lietaliation,' was wiiiten for 
his own amusement, and that of his friends who were 
the subjects of it. That he did not live to finish it is 
to be lamented ; for it is supposed that he would have 
introduced more characters. What he has left, how- 
ever, is nearly perfect in its kind ; with wonderful art 
he has traced al! the leading features of his several 
portraits, and given with truth the characteristic p'j- 
culiaiities of each : no man is lampooned, and no mrin 
is flattered. The occasion of the poe'n was a circum- 
stance of festivity. A literary party with which he 
occasionally dined at the St. James's coffee-house one 
day proposed to write epitaphs on him. In these, his 
person, dialect, &c. were good-humouredly ridiculed ; 
and as Goldsmith could not disguise his feelings on 
the occasion, he was called upon for a Retaliation, 
which he produced at the next meeting of the party j 
but this, with his ' Haunch of Venison,'' and some 



z;:zdA 



xxvi AlKIN'S MEMOIRS OF 

other short poems, were not printed till after his 
death. 

He had at this time ready for the press, ' The 
Grecian History, from the earliest State to the Death 
of Alexander the Great,' which was afterwards printed 
in 2 vols. 8vo. He had also formed a design of com- 
piling a ' Universal Dictionary of Arts and Sciences,' 
a prospectus of which he printed and sent to his 
friends, many of whom had promised to furnish iiim 
with articles on different subjects. The booksellers, 
however, though they had a high opinion of his abili- 
ties, were startled at the bulk, importance, and ex- 
pense of so great an undertaking, the execution of 
v;hich was to depend upon a man with whose indo- 
lence of temper, and method of procrastination, they 
liad long been acquainted : the coldness with which 
they met his proposals was lamented by Goldsmith to 
the hour of his death ; which seems to have been ac- 
celerated by a neglect of his health, occasioned by 
continual vexation of mind on account of his fre- 
quently involved circumstances, although the la>;t 
year's produce of his labour is generally believed to 
have amounted to 18001. 

In the spring of 1774 he was attacked in a very se- 
vere manner by the strangury, a disease of which he 
had often experienced slight symptoms. It now in- 
duced a nervous fever, which required medical assist- 
ance; and on the 25th of March he sent for his friend 
Mr. (afterwards Dr.) Hawes, to whom he related the 
symptoms of his malady, expressing at the same time a 
disgust with life, and a despondency which did not 
well become a man of his understanding. He told 
Mr. Hawes that he had taken two ounces of ipeca- 
cuanha wine as an emetic, and that it was his inten- 
tion to take Dr. James's fever powders, which he 
desired he wouliJ send him. Mr. Hawes represented 
to his patient the impropriety of taking the medicine 
at that time ; but no argument could induce him to 
relinquish his intention. Finding this, and justly ap- 
prehensive of the fatal consequences of his putting 



OLIVElt GOLDSMITH. isvii 

this rash resolve in execution, he requested permis- 
sion to s-end for Dr. Fordyce, of whose medical abi- 
lities he knew that Goldsmith had the highest opinion. 
Dr. Fordyce came, and corroborated the apothecary's 
assertion, adding every argument that he could think 
of to dissuade him from using- the powders in the pre- 
sent case ; but, deaf to all the remonstrances of his 
physician and his friend, he obstinately persisted in 
his resolution. 

The next day Mr. Hawes again visited his patient, 
and inquiring of him how he did, Goldsmith .sighed 
deeply, and in a dejected tone said, ' I wish Thad 
taken your friendly advice last night.' Dr. Fordyce 
came, and, finding the alarming symptoms increase, 
desired fllr. Hawes to propose sending for Dr. Tur- 
ton : to this Goldsmith readily consented. The two 
physicians met, and held consultations twice a day 
till Monday, April 4, when their patient died. 

Warmth of affection induced Sir Joshua Reynolds 
and other friends of Goldsmith to lay a plan for a 
sumptuous public funeral ; according to which he was 
to have been interred in Westminster Abbey, and his 
pall to have been supported by Lord Shelburne (after- 
wards Marquisof Lansdowne), Lord Louth, Sir j oshua 
Reynolds, Mr. Edmund Burke, the Hon. Topham 
Beauclerc, and Mr. Garrick : but on a slight inspec- 
tion of his affairs it was found that, so far" from hav- 
ing left property to justify so expensive a proceeding, 
he was about 2000Z. in debt. The original inten- 
tion, therefore,, was abandoned ; and he was privately 
interred in the Temple burial-ground at five o'clock 
on Saturday evening, April 9, attended bv the llev. 
Joseph Palmer (nephew of Sir Joshua Reynolds, and 
afterwards Dean of Cashel in Ireland ),' Mr. Huo-h 
Kelly, air. (afterwards Dr.) Hawes, Messrs. John 
and Robert Day, and Mr. Etherington. 

A subscription, however, was speedilv raised amono- 
Goldsmith's friends, but chiefly by the Literary Club"; 
and a marble monumental stone,"' executed by Nolle- 
kens, consisting of a large medallion exhibiting a good 



xxviii AlKIN'S MEMOIRS OF 

resemblance of our author in profile, embellished with 
appropriate ornaments, was placed in Weftminster 
Abbey, between those of Gaj' the poet and the Duke 
of Ar^jyle, in Poets' Corner ; having underneath, on 
a tablet of white marble, the following inscription, 
from the pen of his friend Dr. Johnson : 

OliVARII GoLIlSMlTH, 

PoetK, Pbysici, Historici, 
Qui nullum fere scribendi genus 

Non tetigit ; 

Nullum quod tetigit non ornavit: 

Sive risus esseiit naoveudi 

Sive lacrym.e, 

Affectuum potens et leiiis doniiiiator: 

Ingenio subiimis, yividus, versatilis, 

Oratione g-vandis, nitidus, veiiustus ; 

Hoc roonumeiito meinoriam coluit 

Sodalium amor, 

Aiuicorum tides, 

Lectorura veiieratio. 

Natua in Hibeniia, Forneias LougfordiensiSj 

Id loco cui nomen I'allas, 

Nov. XXIX. MUOCXXXI.* 

Eblana; Uteris institutus, 

Obiit Londiu'i, 

Apr. IV. MDCCLXXiv. 

Of which the following is a translation : — 

By the love of his associates. 

The fidelity of his friends. 

And the veneration of his readers, 

This monument is raised 

To the meniorv of 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 

A poet, a natural philosopher, and an historian. 

Who left no species of writina^ untouched by his pen; 

Nor touched any that he did not erabellish : 

Whether smiles or tears were to he excited. 

He was a powerful yet gentle master 

Over the affections; 

* Johnson liad been misinformed in tliesc particulars : It has ^eu 
•ince ascertaiiifci llrat he was bojn at Elphin, iu the county of Rm- 
common, Nov, S9, 1728. 



OLIVER GOLDSiMITH. xiix 

Of a genius at on.ie sublime, lively, and 
equal to every subject; 
In expression at once lofty, elegant, and graceful. 

He was bom in the kingdom of Ireland, 

At a place called Pallas, in the parish of Fomey» 

And county of Longford, 

23th Nov. 1731.* 

Educated at Dublin, 

And died in London, 

4th April, 1774. 

Besiile this Latin epitapii. Dr. Johnson honoured 
the memory of Goldsmith with the following short 
one in Greek : — 

Tcv rafov utro^da.; rov Okifia^idio, Kov'inv 

1 In [ii/inXi (fufft;, fitrpcoM ^cipis, epya TCikaiov* 
KXa/sTE trajJiTJiv, urTcpmov, puinx/iy. 

Mr. Boswell, who was vfiy i'ltimately acquainted 
with Goldsmith, thus speaks of his person and cha- 
racter : — 

' The person of Goldsmith was short; his counte- 
nance coarse and vulo;ar; his deportment that of a 
scholar, awkwardly affecting the complete gentleman. 
No man had the art of displaying, with more ad- 
vantage, whatever literary acquisitions he made. His 
mind resembled a fertile but thin soil ; there was a 
quick but not a strong vegetation of whatever chanced 
to be thrown upon it. No deep root could be struck. 
The oak of the forest did not grow there ; but the 
elegant shrubbery, and the fragrant parterre, appeared 
in gay succession. It has been generally circulated, 
and believed, that he was a mere fool in conversation. 
In allusion to this, Blr. Horatio Walpole, who admired 
his writings, said, he was "an inspired idiot;" and 
Garrick describes him as one, — 



• for shortness call'd Noll, 



Who wrote like an angel, and talk'd like poor Poll." 
*■ See the Note in the preceding^ pa^^c 



XKX AIKIN'S M la; U Ills OF 

But, in reality, these*clescriptions aie greatly exacce. 
rated. He had, no doubt, a more lljan common share 
of that hurry of ideas, whicli we often find in liis 
countrymen, and which sometimes introduces a lauoh- 
al)le confusion in expressing them. lie was very much 
what the Fiench call tin itourdi: and from vanity, 
and an eager desire of being conspicuous wherever he 
was, he frequently talked carelessly, without any 
knowledge of the subject, or even without thought. 
Those who were any ways distinguished, excited envy 
in him to so ridiculous an excess, tiiat the instances of 
it are hardly credible. He, I am fold, had no settled 
system of any sort, so that his conduct must not be 
too strictly criticised ; but his afftciions were social 
and generous ; and when he had money, he bestowed 
it liberally. His desires of imaginary consequence 
frequently predominated over his attention to truth. 

' His prose has been admitted as tlie mudel of per- 
fection, and the standard of the English language. 
Dr. Johnson says, " Goldsmith was a man of such 
variety of powers, and such felicity of performance, 
that he seemed to excel in whatever he attempted ; a 
man who had the art of being minute without tedious- 
ness, and generally without confusion ; whose lan- 
guage was capacious without exuberance ; exact with, 
out restraint; and easy without weakness." 

' His merit as a poet is universally acknowledged. 
His writings partake rather of the elegance and har- 
mony of Pope, than the grandeur and sublimity of 
Milton ; and it is to be lamented, that his poetical 
productions are not more numerous ; for though l)is 
ideas flowed rapidly, he arranged them with great 
caution, and occupied much time in polishing his 
periods, and harmoniiing his numbers. 

' His most favourite poems are, "The Traveller," 
" Deserted Village," " Hermit," and '• I'etaliation." 
These productions may justly be ranked with llie most 
admired works in English poetry. 

' " The Traveller" delights us writh a display of 
charming imagery, refined ideas, and happy expres- 



OLI\ER GOLDSMITH. xxxt 

sions. The characteristics of the different naiions are 
stro!igly marked, and the predilection of each inha 
bitant in favour of his own ingeniously described. 

' " The Deserted Yi!!as;e" is generally admirtd ; 
the characters are drawn from the life. The descrip- 
tions are livelv and picturesque; and the "hole appears 
so easy and natural, as to bear the semblance of his- 
torical truth more than poetical fiction. The descrip- 
tion of the parish priest (probably intended for a 
charac'er of his brother Henry) would have done 
honour to any poet of any age. In this description, 
the simile of the bird teaching her young to fly, and of 
the mountain that rises above the storm, are not easily 
to be paralleled. The rest of the poem consists of ihe 
character of the village schoolmaster, and a description 
of the village alehouse ; both drawn with admirable 
propriety and force ; a descant on the mischiefs of 
luxury and wealth ; the variety of artificial pleasures ; 
the miseries of those who, for want of employment at 
home, are driven to settle new colonies abroad ; and 
concludes with a beautiful apostrophe to poetry. 

' "The Hermit" holds equal estimation with the 
rest of his poetical productions. 

' His last poem, of " Retaliation," is replete with 
humour, free from spleen, and forcibly exhibits the 
prominent features of the several characters to which 
it alludes. Dr. Johnson sums up his literary cha- 
racter in the following concise manner: " Take him 
[Goldsmith] as a poet, his ' Traveller' is a very fine 
performance ; and so is his ' Deserted \'ill3ge,' were 
it not sometimes too much the echo of his ' J'raveller.' 
Whether we take him as a poet, as a comic writer, or 
as an historian, he stands in the first class." ' 
. We have before observed, that his poem of ' Rkta- 
liation' was provoked bv several jocular epitaphs 
written upon him by the different members of a dinner 
club to which he belonged. Of these we subjoin a 
part of that which was produced by Garrick : — 

' Here, Hermes, says Jove, wbo with nectar was ruellow, 
do, fetoh me some clay — 1 will make an odd fellow. 



ixxii AIKIN'S MEMOIRS OF 

Right and wroii^ shalJ be jumbled; much gold, aud some 

dross ; 
Without cause be he pleased, without cause be he cross : 
Be sure, as I work, to throw in contradictions ; 
A great lover of truth, yet a mind turn'd to fictions. 
Now mix these ingredients, v/hich, warm'd in the baking. 
Turn to learning and gaming, religion and raking; 
With the love of a wench, let his writings be chaste. 
Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine 

taste ; 
That the rake and the poet o'er all may prevail. 
Set fire to his head, and set fire to his tail; 
For thf; joy of each sex on the world I'll bestow it, 
This scholar, rake. Christian, dupe, gamester, and poet. 
Thougli a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame. 
And among brother mortals be Goldsmith his name. 
When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear. 
You, Hermes, shall fetch him, to make us sport here.' 

To these we shall add another sketch of our author 
(by way of Epitaph), written by 3 friend as soon as 
he heard of his death : — 

' Here rests from the cares of the world and his pen, 
A poet whose like we shall scarce meet again ; 
Who, though form'd in an age when corruptions ran high. 
And folly alone seem'd with folly to vie ; 
When Genius, with traffic too commonly train'd. 
Recounted her merits by what she had gaiu'd. 
Yet spurn'd at those walks of debasement and pelf. 
And ill poverty's spite dared to think for himself. 
Thus freed from those fetters the muses oft bind. 
He wrote from the heart to the hearts of mankind; 
And such was the prevalent force of his song. 
Sex, ages, and parties, he drew in a throng. 

• The lovers — 'twas theirs to esteem and commend. 
For his Hermit had proved him their tutor and friend. 
The statesman, his politic passions on fire. 
Acknowledged repose from the charms of his lyre. 
The moralist too had a feel for his rhymes, 
For his Essays were curbs on the rage of the times. 
Nay, the critic, all school 'd in grammatical sense, 
■Who look'd in the glow of description tor tense, 
Reform'd as he read, fell a dupe to his art. 
And confess'd by his eyes what he felt at his heart. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. xxxiii 

« Yet, We^s'd with original powers like, these. 
His principal forte was on paper to please ; 
Like a fieet-footed hunter, though first in the chase, 
On the road of plain sense he oft slacken'd his pace; 
Whil.-t Dulness and Cunning, by whipping and goring. 
Their liard-footed hackneys paraded before him. 
Compounded likewise of such primitive parts, 
Tliathis manners alone would havegain'd him our hearts. 
So simple iii truth, so ingenuously kind. 
So ready to feel for the wants of mankind ; 
Yet praise but an author of popular quill. 
This lux of philanthropy quickly stood still ; 
Transform'd from himself, he grew meanly severe. 
And rail'd at those talents he ought not to fear. 

' Such then were his foibles ; but though they were such 
As shadow'd the picture a little too much, 
The style was all graceful, expressive, and grand, 
And the whole the result of a masterly hand. 
• Then hear me, blest spirit! now seated above. 

Where all is beatitude, concord, and Icvi-., 

If e'er thy regards were bestov/'d on mankind. 

Thy muse as\ legacy leave us dehinl. 

I ask it by proxy for letters and fame. 

As the pride of our heart and the old English name. 

1 demand it as such for virtue and truth. 

As the solace of age, and the guide of our youth. 

Consider what poets surround us— how dull! 

From Minstrelsy B e to Rosamond H— 111 

Consider what K— ys enervate the stage ; 

Consider what K cks may jioison the age ; 

O ! protect us from such, nor let it be said. 

That in Goldsmith the la^t British poet lies dead I' 



ON THE 

POETRY OF DR. GOLDSMITH; 

BY DR. AIKIN. 



Among those false opinions which, having once ob- 
tained currency, have been adopted without examina- 
tion, may be reckoned the prevalent notion, that, 
notwithstanding the improvement of this country in 
many species of literary composition, its poetical 
character has been on the decline ever since tlie sup- 
posed Augustan age of the beginning of this [the 18th] 
century. No one poet, it is true, has fully succeeded 
to the laurel of Dryden or Pope ; but if without pre- 
judice we compare t!ie minor poets of the present age 
(^minor, I mean, with respect to tlie quantity, not the 
quality, of their productions), with those of any former 
period, we shall, I am convinced, find tiiem greatly 
superior not only in taste and correctness, but in every 
other point of poetical excellence. The works of 
many late and present writers might be confidently 
appealed to in proof of this assertion ; but it will 
suffice to instance the author who is the subject of 
the present Essay ; and I cannot for a moment hesi- 
tate to place the name of Goldsmith, as a poet, above 
that of Addison, ParneU, Tickell, Congreve, Lansdown, 
or any of those who fill the greater part of the vo- 
luminous collection of the EngtiJt Poets. Of tbese^ 
the main body Ivas obtained a prescripii\e right to the 
honour of classical writers ; while their works, ranged 
on the shelves as necessary appendages to a modern 
library, are rarely taken down, and contribute very 



ON DR. GtJLDiMll HS roKTRY. xxxv 

little to the stock of literary amusement. Whereas 
the pieces of Goldsmith are our familiar companions; 
and supply passages for recollection, when our minds 
are eitlier composed to moral reflection, or warmed by 
strong emotions and elevated conceptions. There is, 
I aclinowledge, much of habit and accident in the 
attachments we form to particular writers ; yet 1 have 
little doubt, that if the lovers of English poetry were 
confined to a small selection of authors, Goldsmith 
would find a place in the favourite list of a great 
majority. And it is, I think, with much justice that 
a great modern critic has ever regarded this concur- 
rence of publ-ic favour, as one of the least equivocal 
te.-ts of uncommon merit. Some kinds of excellence, 
it is true, will more readily be recognized than others ; 
and this will not always be in p''oportion to the degree 
of mental power employed in the respective produc 
tions : but he who obtains general and lasting ap- 
plause in any work of art, must have happily executed 
a design judiciously formed. This remark is of funda- 
mental consequence in estimating the poetry of Gold- 
smith ; because it will enable us to hold the balance 
steady, when it might be disposed to incline to the 
superior cltiims of a style of loftier pretension, and 
more brilliant reputation. 

Compared with many poets of deserved eminence. 
Goldsmith will appear characterized by his simp iicity. 
In his language will be found few of t'hose figures 
which are supposed of themselves to constitute poetry ; 
— no violent transpositions ; no uncommon meanings 
and constructions ; no epithets drawn from abstract 
and remote ideas; no coinage of new words by the 
ready mode of turning nouns into verbs ; no bold 
prosopopoeia, or audacious metaphor: — it scarcely 
contains an expression which might not be used in 
eloquent and descriptive prose. It is replete with 
imagery ; but that imagery is drawn from obvious 
sources, and rather enforces the simple idea, than 
dazzles by nevv and unexpected ones. It rejects not 



xsKvi ON THK rOETRY 

• common wordti and phrases : and, like the language 
of Dryden and Otway, is thereby rendered the more 
forcible and pathetic. It is eminently nervous and 
concise ; and hence affords numerous passage:; which 
dwell on the memory. With respect to his matter, 
it is taken from human life, and the objects of nature. 
It does not body forth things unknown, and create 
new beings. Its humbler purpose is to represent 
manners and characters as they really exist ; to im- 
press strongly on the henrt moral and political senti- 
ments ; and to fill the imagination with a variety of 
pleasing or affecting objects selected fiom the stores of 
nature. If this be not the highest department of 
poetry, it has the advantage of being the most univer- 
sally agreeable. To receive delight from the sublime 
fictions of Milton, the allegories of Spenser, the learn- 
ing of Gray, and the fancy of Collins, the mind must 
have been prepared by a course of particular study ; 
and perhaps, at a certain period of life, when the 
judgment exercises a severer scrutiny over the sallies 
of the imagination, the relish forartificiai beauties will 
always abate, if not entirely desert us. But at every 
age, and with every degree of culture, correct and 
well-chosen representations of nature must please. 
We admire them when voung ; we recur to them 
when old ; and they charm us till nothing lonijercan 
charm. Farther, in forming a scale of excellefice for 
artists, we are not only to consider who works ujwu the 
noblest design, but who fills liis desiu;n best. It i.-, ia 
reality, but a poor excuse for a slovenly performer ti 
say ' magnis tamen excidit aiisis ;' and the addition of 
ona master-piece of any kind to the stock of art, is a 
greater benefit, than that of a thousand abortive and 
mis-shapen wonders. 

If Goldsmith then be referred to the class of de- 
scriptive poets, including the description of moral as 
well as of physical nature, it will next be important 
to inquire by what means he has attained the rank of 
a master in his class. Let us then observe how \vi 



OF DR. GOLDSMIfH. xxxvii 

has selected, combined, and contrasted his objects, 
with what truth and strength of colouring he has ex- 
pressed thera, and to what end and purpose. 

As poetry and eloquence do not describe by an 
exact enumeration of every circumstance, it is neces- 
sary to select certain particulars which may excite a 
sufficiently distinct image of the thing to be repre- 
sented. In this selection, the great art is to give cha- 
racteristic marks, whereby the object may at once be 
recognized, without being obscured in a mass of 
common properties, which belong equally to many 
others. Hence the great superiority of particular 
images to general ones in description : the former 
identify, while the latter disguise. Thus, all the 
hackneyed representations of the country in the works 
of ordinary versifiers, in which groves, and rills, and 
flowery meads are introduced just as the rhyme and 
measure require, present nothing to the fancy but 
an indistinct daub of colouring, in which all the di- 
versity of nature is lost and confounded. To catch 
the discriminating features, and present them bold 
and prominent, by few, but decisive strokes, is the 
talent of a master ; and it will not be easy to produce 
a superior to Goldsmith in this respect. The mind 
is never in doubt as to the meaning of his figures, nor 
does it lasHguish over the survey of trivial and unap- 
propriated circumstances. All is alive — all is filled — 
yet all is clear. 

The proper combination of objects refers to the im- 
pression they are calculated to make on the mind ; 
and requires that they should harmonize, and recipro- 
cally enforce and sustain each other's effect. They 
should unite in giving one leading tone to the imagi- 
nation; and without a sameness of form, they should 
blend in an uniformity of hue. This, too, has very suc- 
cessfully been attended to by Goldsmith, who has 
not only sketched his single figures with truth and 
spirit, but has combined them into the most harmonious 
and impressive groups. Nor has any descriptive poei 
better u-nderstood the great force of contrast, in set- 



xxsviii ON THE POETRY 

ting off his scenes, ana preventing any approach to 
wearisomeness by repetition of kindred objects. And, 
with great skill, he has contrived that both parts of 
his contrast should conspire in producing one intended 
moral effect. Of all these excellencies, examples 
v/ill be pointed out as we take a cursory view of the 
particular pieces. 

In addition to the circumstances already noted, the 
force and clearness of representation depend also on 
the diction. It has already been observed, that Gold- 
smith's language is remarkable for its general sim- 
plicity, and the direct and proper use of words. It 
has ornaments, but these are not far-fetched. The 
epithets employed are usually qualities strictly be- 
longing to the subject, and the true colouring of the 
simple figure. They are frequently contrived to ex- 
press a necessary circumstance in the description, and 
thus avoid the usual imputation of being expletive. 
Of this kind are, ' the rattling terrors of the vengeful 
snake ;' ' indurated heart ;' ' shed intolerable day ;' 
' matted woods ;' ' ventrous ploughshare ;' ' equinoctial, 
fervours.' The examples are not few of that indis- 
putable mark of true poetic language, where a single 
word conveys an image ; as in these instances : ' re- 
signation gently slopes the way ;' ' scoops out an em- 
pire ;' ' the vessel idly waiting flaps with every gale ;' 
' to winnow fragrance ;' ' murmurs fluctuate in the 
gale.' All metaglior, indeed, does this in sorne de- 
gree ; but where the accessory idea is either indistinct 
or incongruous, as frequently happens when it is in- 
troduced as an artifice to force language up to poetry, 
the effect is only a gaudy obscurity. 

The end and purpose to which description is directed 
is what distinguishes a well-planned piece from a loose 
effusion ; for though a vivid representation of striking 
objects will ever afford some pleasure, yet if aim and 
design be wanting, to give it a basis, and stamp it 
with the dignity of meaning, it will in a long perfor- 
mance prove flat and tiresome. But this is a want 
which cannot be charged on Goldsmith ; for both 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. ikxix 

the Traveller and the Deserted Village have a great 
moral in view, to which the whole of the description 
is made to tend. I do not now inquire into the legi. 
timacy of the conclusions he has drawn from his pre- 
mises ; it is enough to justify his plans, that -such a 
purpose is included in them. 

The versification of Goldsmith is formed on the 
general model that has been adopted since the refine- 
ment of English poetry, and especially since the time 
of Pope. To manage rhyme couplets so as to pro- 
duce a pleasing effect on the ear, has since that period 
been so common an attainment, that it merits no par- 
ticular admiration. Goldsmith may, I think, be said 
to have come up to the usual standard of proficiency 
in this respect, without having much surpassed it. A 
musical ear, and a familiarity with the best examples, 
have enabled him, without much apparent study, al- 
most always to avoid defect, and very often to pro- 
duce excellence. It is no censure of this poet to say 
that his versification presses less on the attetition than 
his matter. In fact, he has none of those peculiari- 
ties of versifying, whether improvements or not, that 
some who aim at distinction in this point have adopted. 
He generally suspends or closes the sense at the end 
of the line or of the couplet ; and therefore does not 
often give examples of that greater compass and variety 
of melody which is obtained by longer clauses, or by 
breaking the coincidences of the cadence of sound and 
meaning. He also studiously rejects triplets and 
alexandrines. But allowing for the want of these 
sources of variety, he has sufficiently avoided mono- ■ 
tony ; and in the usual flow of his measure, he has 
gratified the ear with as much change, as judiciously 
shifting the line-pauses can produce. 

Having made these general observations on the 
nature of Goldsmith's poetry, I proceed to a- s,urvey 
of his principal pieces. 

The Traveller, or Prospect of Socieiy, was first 
sketched out by the author during a tour in Europe, 
great part of which he ferformed on foot, and in cir- 



Jd ON THK PUEiUY 

cumstances which afforded him the fullest means of 
becoming acquainted with the most numerous class 
in society, peculiarly termed the people. The date of 
the first edition is 1765. It begins in the gloomy 
mood natural to genius in distress, when wandering 
alone, 

' Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow.' 

After an affectionate and regretful glance to the 
peaceful seat of fraternal kindness, and some expres- 
sions of self-pity, the Poet sits down amid Alpine 
solitudes to spend a pensive hour in meditating on 
the state of mankind. He finds that the natives of 
every land regard their own with preference ; whence 
he is led to this proposition, — that if we impartially 
compare the advantages belonging to different coun- 
tries, we shall conclude that an equal portion of good 
IS dealt to all the human race. He farther supposes, 
that every nation, having in view one peculiar species 
of happiness, models life to that alone ; vvlience this 
favourite kind, pushed to an extreme, becomes a source 
of peculiar evils. To exemplify this by instances, ia 
the business of the subsequent descriptive part of the 
piece. 

Italy is the first country that comes under review- 
Its general landscape is painted by a few characteristic 
strokes, and the felicity of its climate is displayed i; 
appropriate imagery. The revival of arts and co/ti- 
merce in Italy, and their subsequent decline, are next 
touched upon ; and hence is derived the present dis 
position of the people — easily pleased with splendid 
trifles, the wrecks of their former grandeur ; and sunk 
into an enfeebled moral and ijitellectual character, re- 
ducing them to the level of children. 

From these he turns with a sort of disdain, to view 
a nobler race, hardened by a rigorous climate, and by 
the necessity of unabating toil. These are the Swiss, 
who find, in the equality of their condition, and their 
ignorance of other modes of life, a source of content 
which remedies the natural evils of their lot. There 



J 



or ;.;j. goldsmith. xa 

tannot be a more delightful picture than the poet has 
IravTn of the Swiss peasant, going forth to his morn- 
ino-'s labour, and returning at night to the bosom of 
domestic happmess. It sufficiently accounts for that 
-patriot passion for which they have ever been so cele- 
brated, and which is here described in hnes that reach 
the heart, aud is illustrated by a beautiful simile. But 
this -tate of life has also its disadvantages. 1 he sources 
of enioyment being few, a vacant listlessness is apt tt 
creeo upon the breast; and if nature urges to throw 
this off by occasional bursts of pleasure, no stimulus 
can reach the purpose but gross sensual debauch. 
Their morals, too, like their enjoyments are ot a 
coarse texture. Some sterner virtues hold high domi- 
nion in their breast, but all the gentler and more re- 
fined qualities of the heart, which soften and sweeten 
life, are exiled to milder climates. 

To the more genial climate of France the traveller 
next repairs, and in a very pleasing rural picture he 
introduces himself in the capacity of musician to a 
villao-e party of dancers beside the murmuring Loire. 
The leading feature of this nation he represents as be- 
incr the love of praise ; which passion, while it inspires 
sentiments of honour, and a desire of pleasing, also 
affords a free course to folly, and nourishes vatiity and 
ostentation. The soul, accustomed to depend tor its 
happiness on foreign applause, shifts its principles 
with the change of fashion, and is a stranger to the 
value of self-approbation. . . 

The strong contrast to this national character is 
soucrht in Holland; a most graphical description of 
the°scenery presented by that singular country in- 
troduces the moral portrait of the people. Irom the 
necessity of unceasing labour, induced by their pecu- 
liar circumstances, a habit of industry has been formed, 
of which the natural consequence is a love ot gain. 
The possession of exuberant wealth has given rise to 
the arts and conveniences of life ; but at the same 
time has introduced a crafty, cold, and mercenary 
temper, which sets every thing, even liberty itselt, a 



aiii ON THE rOETllY 

a price. How different, exclaims the poet, from their 
Belgian ancestors ! how different from the present race 
of Britain ! 

To Britain, then, he turns, and begins with a slight 
sketch of the country, in which, he says, the mildest 
charms of creation are combined, 

' Extremes are only in the master's mind.' 

He then draws a very striking picture of a stern, 
thoughtful, independent freeman, a creature of reason, 
un fashioned by the common forms of life, and loose 
from all its ties; — and this he gives as the representa- 
tive of the English character. A society formed by 
such unyielding self-dependent beings, will naturally 
be a scene of violent political contests, and ever in a 
ferment with party. And a still worse fate awaits it ; 
for the ties of nature, duty, and love, failing, the fic- 
titious bonds of wealth and law must be employed to 
hold together such a reluctant association ; whence 
the time may come, that valour, learning, and pa- 
triotism, may all lie levelled in one sink of avarice. 
These are the ills of freedom ; but the Poet, who 
would only repress to secure, goes on to deliver his 
ideas of the cause of such mischiefs, which he seems 
to place in the usurpations of aristocratical upon regal 
authority ; and with great energy he expresses his in- 
dignation at the oppressions the poor suffer from their 
petty tyrants. This leads him to a kind of anticipa- 
tion of the subject of his ' Deserted Village,' where, 
laying aside the politician, and resuming the poet, he 
describes, by a few highly pathetic touches, the depo- 
pulated fields, the ruined village, and the poor forlorn 
inhabitants driven from their beloved home, and ex- 
posed to all the perils of the trans-atl antic wilderness. 
It is by no means my intention to enter into a discus- 
sion of GoLDSMrxn's political opinions, which bear 
evident marks of confused notions and a heated imagi- 
nation. I shall confine myself to a remark upon the 
English national character, which will apply to him in 
common with various other writers, native and foreign 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH xliii 

This country has long been in the possession of 
more unrestrained freedom of thinking and acting than 
any other perhaps that ever existed ; a consequence 
of which has been, that all those peculiarities of cha- 
racter, which in other nations remain concealed in 
the general mass, have here stood forth prominent and 
conspicuous ; and these being from their nature cal- 
culated to draw attention, have by superficial obser- 
vers been mistaken for the general character of tlie 
people. This has been particularly the case with 
political distinction. From the publicity of all pro- 
ceedings in the legislative part of our constitution, and 
the independence with which many act, all party dif- 
ferences are strongly marked, and public men take 
their side with openness and confidence. Public to- 
pics, too, are discussed by all ranks ; and whatever 
seeds there are in any part of the society of spirit and 
activity, have full opportunity of germinating. But 
to imagine that these busy and high-spirited characters 
compose a majority of the community, or perhaps a 
much greater proportion than in other countries, is a 
delusion. This nation, as a body, is, like all others, 
characterized by circumstances of its situation ; and a 
rich commercial people, long trained to society, in- 
habiting a climate where many things are necessary 
to ftie comfort of life, and under a government abound- 
ing with splendid distinctions, cannot possibly be a 
knot of philosophers and patriots. 

To return from this digression. Though it is pro- 
bable that few of Goldsmith's readers will be con- 
vinced, even from the instances he has himself pro- 
duced, that the happiness of mankind is every where 
equal ; yet all will feel the force of the truly philoso- 
phical sentiment which concludes the piece, — that 
man's chief bliss is ever seated in his mind ; and that 
but a small part of real felicity consists in what human 
governments can either bestow or withhold. 

The Deserted Village, first printed in 1769, is the 
companion-piece of the Traveller, formed, like it, 
upon a plan which unites description with sentiment, 
.3 A 



siiy OM THE POETRY 

and employs both in inculcating a political moral. It 
is a view of the prosperous and ruined state of a coun- 
try village, vyith reflections on the causes of both. 
Such it may be defined in prose ; but the disposition, 
management, and colouring of the piece, are all cal- 
culated for poetical effect. It begins with a delightful 
picture of Auburn when inhabited by a happy peo- 
ple. The view of the village itself, and the rural 
occupations and pastimes of its simple natives, is in 
the best style of painting, by a selection of charac- 
teristic circumstances. It is immediately contrasted 
by a similar bold sketch of its ruined and desolated 
condition. Then succeeds an imaginary state of Eng- 
land, in a kind of golden age of equality ; with its 
contrast likewise. The apostrophe that follows, the 
personal complaint of the poet, and the portrait of a 
sage in retirement, are sweetly sentimental touches, 
that break the continuity of description. 

He returns to Auburn, and having premised another 
masterly sketch of its two states, in which the images 
are chiefly drawn from sounds, he proceeds to what 
may be called the interior history of the village. In 
his first figure he has tried his strength with Dryden, 
The parish priest of that great poet, improved from 
Chaucer, is a portrait full of beauty, but drawn in a 
loose, unequal manner, with the flowing vein or di- 
gressive thought and imagery that stamps his, style. 
The subject of the draught, too, is considerably dif- 
ferent from that of Goldsmith, having more of the 
ascetic and mortified cast, in conformity to the saintly 
model of the Roman Catholic priesthood. The pastor 
of Auburn is more human, but is not on that account 
a less venerable and interesting figure ; though I 
know not whether all will be pleased with his fami- 
liarity with vicious characters, which goes beyond the 
purpose of mere reformation. The descript.on of him 
in his professional character is truly admirable ; and 
the similes of the bird instructing his young to fly, 
and the tall cliflT rising above the storm, have been 
universally applauded. The first, I believe, is ori- 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. xlv 

ginal ; — tlie second is not so, though it has probably 
never been so well drawn and applied. The subse- 
quent sketches of the village schoolmaster and ale- 
house, are close imitations of nature in low life, like 
the pictures of Teniers and Hogarth. Yet even these 
humorous scenes slide imperceptibly into sentiment 
and pathos ; and the comparison of the simple plea- 
sures of the poor, with the splendid festivities of the 
opulent, rises to the highest style of moral poetry. 
Who has not felt the force of that reflection, 

' The lieai't distrusting asts, if this he joy V 

The writer then falls into a strain of reasoning 
against luxury and superfluous wealth, in which the 
sober inquirer will find much serious tru-th, though 
mixed with poetical exaggeration. The description of 
the contrasted scenes of magnificence and misery in a 
great metropolis, closed by the pathetic figure of the 
forlorn ruined female, is not to be surpassed. 

Were not the subjects of Goldsmith's description 
so skilfully varied, the uniformity of manner, consisting 
in an enumeration of single circumstances, generally 
depicted in single lines, might tire ; but where is the 
reader who can avoid being hurried along by the swift 
current of imagery, vifhen to such a passage as the last 
succeeds a landscape fraught with all the sublime 
terrors of the torrid zone; — and then, an exquisitely 
tender history-piece of the departure of the villagers ; 
concluded wi'ch a group (slightly touched indeed) ot 
allegorical personages'! A noble address to the Genius 
of Poetry, in which is compressed the moral of the 
whole, gives a dignified finishing to the work. 

If we compare these two principal poems of Gold- 
smith, we may say, that the ' Traveller' is formed 
upon a more regular plan, has a higher p-urpose in 
view, more abounds in thought, and in the sxpressioa 
of moral and philosophical ideas ; the ' Deserted 
Village' has more imagery, more variety, more pathos, 
more of the peculiar character of poetry. In t.he firsi, 
the moral and natural descriptions are more general 



xlvi ON DR. GOLDSMirH'S POETRY. 

and elevated ; in the second, tliey are more particular 
and interesting. Both are trulj' original productions; 
but the ' Deserted Village' has less peculia'rity, and 
indeed has given rise to imitations which may stand ia 
some parallel with it ; while the ' Traveller' remains 
an unique. 

With regard to Goldsmith's other poems, a few 
remarks will sufBce. The ' Hermit,' printed in the 
same year with the ' Traveller,' has been a very popu- 
lar piece, as might be expected of a tender tale prettily 
told, it is called a ' Ballad,' but I think with no 
correct application of that term, which properly means 
a story related in language either naturally or affectedly 
rude and simple. It has been a sort of fashion to 
admire these productions ; yet in the really ancient 
ballads, for one stroke of beauty, there are pages of 
insipidity and vulgarity ; and the imitations have been 
pleasing in proportion as they approached more finished 
compositions. In Goldsmith's ' Hermit,' the lan- 
guage is always polished, and often ornamented. The 
best things in it are some neat turns of moral and 
pathetic sentiment, given witii a simple conciseness 
that fits them for being retained in the memory. As 
to the story, it has little fancy or contrivance to re- 
commend it. 

We have already seen that Goldsmith possessed 
humour ; and, exclusively of his comedies, pieces pro- 
fessedly humorous form a part of his poetical remains. 
His imitations of Swift are happy, but they are imi- 
tations. His tale of the ' Double Transformation' may 
rie with those of Prior. His own natural vein of easy 
humour flows freely in his ' Haunch of Venison' and 
' Retaliation ;' the first, an admirable specimen of a 
very ludicrous stoiy made out of a common incident 
by the help of conversation and character ; the other, 
an original thought, in which his talent at drawing 
portraits, with a mixture of the serious and the coinic, 
is most happily displayed. 



^m 



VERSES 

OH THE 

DEATH OF Dr. GOLDSMITH. 



EXTEACT FROM A POEM 

WRITTEN BY COURTNEY MELMOTH, ESQ. 

ON THK DEATH OF EMINENT ENGLISH POKTS. 



THE TEARS OP GENIUS. 

The village bell tolls out the note of death. 
And through the echoing air the length'ning soundj 
With dreadful pause, reverberating deep. 
Spreads the sad tidings o'er fair Auburn's vale. 
There, to enjoy the scenes her bard had praised 
In all the sweet simplicity of song. 
Genius, in pilgrim garb, sequester'd sat. 
And herded jocund with the harmless swains : 
But when she heard the fate-foreboding knell. 
With startled step, precipitate and swift. 
And look pathetic, full of dire presage. 
The church-way walk, beside the neighb'ring green, 
Sorrowing she sought ; and there, in black array, 
Borne on the shoulders of the swains he loved. 
She saw the boast of Auburn moved along. 
Touch'd at the view, her pensive breast she struck. 
And to the cypress, which incumbent hangs. 
With leaning slope and branch irregular. 
O'er the moss'd pillars of the sacred fane. 
The briar-bound graves shadowing with funeral gloom, 
Forlorn she hied ; and there the crowding wo 
B 



2 COMMENDATORY VERSES, 

(Sweil'd by the parent) press'd on bleeding thought, 
Big ran tlie drops from her maternal eye. 
Fast broke the bosom-sorrow from her heart. 
And pale Distress sat sickly on her cheek, 
As thus her plaintive Elegy began : — 
' And must my children all expire ? 
Shall none be left to strike the lyre ? 
Courts Death alone a learned prize 1 
Falls his shafts only on the wise 1 
Can no fit marks on earth be found. 
From useless thousands swarming round? 
What crowding cyphers cram the land. 
What hosts of victims, at command ! 
Yet shall the ingenious drop alone? 
Shall Science grace the tyrant's throne? 
'1 hou murd'ier of the tuneful train, 
I chaige thee with my children slain ! 
Scarce lias ti)e sun thrice urged his annual tour. 
Since half rny race have felt thy barbarous pow« ; 
Sore hast thou thinn'd each pleasing art. 
And struck a muse with every dart : 
Bard after bard obey'd thy slaughtering call. 
Tin scarce a poet lives to sing a brothe°r's fall. 
Then let a widow'd mother pay 
The tribute of a parting lay ; 
Tearful, inscribe the monumental strain. 
And speak aloud her feelings and her pain ! 

' And f.rst, farewell to thee, my son,' she cried, 
• Thou pride of Auburn's dale— sweet bard, farewell I 
Long for thy sake the peasant's tear shall flow. 
And many a virgin bosom heave with wo ; 
For thee shall sorrow sadden all the scene. 
And every pastime perish on the green ; 
The sturdy farmer shall suspend his tale. 
The woodman's ballad shall no more regale. 
No more shall Mirth each rustic sport inspire, 
But every frolic, every feat, shall tire. 
No more the evening gambol shall delight, 
Nor moonshine revels crown the vacant night, 



COMMK.NDATUUY VERSES. 3 

But groups of villngers (each joy forgot) 

Shall form a sad assembly round the cot. 

Sweet bard, farewell '.—and farewell, Auburn's bliss, 

The bashful lover, and the yieWed kiss : 

The evening warble Philomeia made, 

The echoing forest, and the whispering shade. 

The winding brook, the bleat of brute content. 

And the blithe voice that " whistled as it went :" 

These shall no longer charm the plou-^hmau's care. 

But sighs shall fill the pauses of despair. 

« Goldsmith, adieu ; the " book-learn'd priest" for 
thee 
Shall now in vain possess his festive glee. 
The oft-heard jest in vain he shall reveal. 
For now, alas ! the jest he cannot feel. 
But ruddy damsels o'er ;hy tomb shall bond. 
And conscious weep for their and virtue's friend ^ 
The milkmaid shall reject the shepherd's song. 
And cease to carol as she toils along : 
All Auburn shall bewail the fatal day, 
When from her fields their pride was snatch'J away , 
And even the matron of the cressy lake, 
In piteous plight, her palsied head shall shake, 
While all adown the furrows of lier face 
Slow shall the lingering tears each other trace. 

And, oh, my child ! severer woes remain 
To all the houseless and unshelter'd train ! 
Thy fate shall sadden many an humble guest. 
And heap fresh anguish on the beggar'sbreast ; 
For dear wert thou to all the sons of pain. 
To all that wander, sorrow, or complain : 
Dear to the learned, to the simple dear. 
For daily blessings mark'd thy virtuous year ; 
The rich received a moral from thy head. 
And from thy heart the stranger found a bed : 
Distress came always smiling from thy door ; 
For God bad made thee agent to the poor. 
Had form'd thy feelings on the noblest plan. 
To grace at once the poet and the man.' 



EXTRACT FROM A MONODY. 

Dark as the night, which now in dunnest robe 

Ascends her zenith o'er the silent globe, 

Sad Melancholy wakes, a while to tread, 

With solemn step, the mansions of the dead : 

Led by her hand, o'er this yet recent shrine 

I sorrowing bend ; and here essay to twine 

The tributary wreath of laureat bloom, 

With artless hands, to deck a poet's tomb, — 

I'he tomb where Goldsmith sleeps. Fond hopes, 

adieu ! 
No more your airy dreams shall mock my view ; 
Here will I learn ambition to control, 
And each aspiring passion of the soul : 
E'en now, methinks, his well-known voice I hear, 
When late he meditated flight from care, 
When, as imagination fondly hied 
To scenes of sweet retirement, thus he cried .— 

' Ye splendid fabrics, palaces, and towers. 
Where dissipation leads the giddy hours, 
Where pomp, disease, and knavery reside. 
And folly bends the knee to wealthy pride; 
Where luxury's purveyors learn to rise, 
And worth, to want a prey, unfriended dies ; 
Where warbling eunuchs glitter in brocade, 
Atnd hapless poets toil for scanty bread : 
Farewell ! to other scenes I turn my eyes, 
Embosom'd in the vale where Auburn lies — - 
Deserted Auburn, those now ruin'd glades. 
Forlorn, yet ever dear and honour'd shades : 
There, though the hamlet boasts no smiling train, 
Nor sportful pastime circling on the plain. 
No needy villains prowl around for prey. 
No slanderers, no sycophants betray ; 
No gaudy foplings scornfully deride 
The swain, whose humble pipe is all his pride, — 
There will I fly to seek that soft repose. 
Which solitude contemplative bestows. 



COMMKNI'Al'OUY VKRSE.S. 5 

Yet, oh, fond hope ! perchance there sUil remaios 
One' lingering friend behind, to bless the plains , 
Some hermit of the dale, enshrined in ease. 
Long lost companion of my youthful days ; 
With whose sweet converse in his social bower, 
I oft may chide away some vacant hour ; 
To whose pure sympathy I may impart 
Each latent grief that labours at my heart, 
Whate'er I felt, and what I saw, relate. 
The shoals of luxury, the wrecks of state, — 
Those busy scenes, where science wakes in vain, 
In which I shared, ah ! ne'er to share again. 
But whence that pang"! does nature now rebsll 
Why falters out my tongue the word farewell ? 
Ye friends ! who long have witness'd to my toil. 
And seen me ploughing in a thankless soil. 
Whose partial tenderness hush'd every pain, 
Whose approbation made my bosom vain, — 
'Tis you to whom my soul divided hies 
With fond regret, and half unwilling flies ; 
Sighs forth her parting wishes to the wind. 
And lingering leaves her better half behind. 
Can I forget the intercourse I shared. 
What friendship cherish 'd, and what zeal endear'd? 
Alas ! remembrance still must turn to you. 
And, to my latest hour, protract the long adieu. 
Amid the woodlands, vvlieresoe'er 1 rove. 
The plain, or secret covert of the grove. 
Imagination shall supply her store 
Of painful bliss, and what she can restore ; 
Shall strew each lonely path with flow'rets gay. 
And wide as is her boundless empire stray ; 
On eagle pinions traverse earth and skies, 
And bid the lost and distant objects rise. 
Here, where encircled o'er the sloping land 
Woods rise on woods, shall Aristotle stand ; 
Lyceum round the godlike man rejoice, 
And bow with reverence to wisdom's voice. 
There, spreading oaks shall arch the vaulted dome. 
The champion, there, of Mberty and Rome, 



6 COMMKNDATOHY VERSES. 

In Attic eloquence shall thunder laws. 

And uneorrupted senates shout applause. 

Not more ecstatic visions rapt the soul 

Of Numa, when to midnight grots he stole, 

And learnt his lore, from virtue's mouth refined. 

To fetter vice, and harmonize mankind. 

Now stretch'd at ease beside some fav'nte stream. 

Of beauty and enchantment will I dream ; 

Elysium, seats of arts, and laurels won, 

The Graces th-ree, and Japhet's* fabled sonj 

Whilst Angelo shall wave the mystic rod. 

And see a new creation wait his nod ; 

Prescribe his bounds to Time's remorseless power. 

And to my arms my absent friends restore ; 

Place me amidst the group, each well-known face. 

The sons of science, lords of human race; 

And as oblivion sinks at his command. 

Nature shall rise more finish'd from his hand. 

Thus some magician, fraught with potent skill. 

Transforms and moulds each varied mass at will ; 

Calls animated forms of wondrous birth, 

Cadmean offspring, from the teeming earth, 

Unceres the ponderous tombs, the realms of night. 

And calls their cold inhabitants to light ; 

Or, as he traverses a dreary scene. 

Bids every sweet of nature there convene, 

Huge mountains skirted round with wavy woods. 

The shrub-deck'd lawns, and silver-sprinkled floods, 

Whilst flow'rets spring around the smiling land. 

And follow on the traces of his wand. 

' Such prospects, lovely Auburn ! then, be thine. 
And what thou canst of bliss impart be mine ; 
Amid thy humble shades, in tranquil ease. 
Grant me to pass the remnant of my days. 
Unfetter'd from the toil of wretched gain. 
My raptured muse shall pour her noblest strain. 
Within her native bowers the notes prolong. 
And, grateful, meditate her latest song. 
1 hus, as adown the slope of life I bend, 
4nd move, resign'd, to meet my latter end 

* Prometheus. 



com.mknjJATory verses. J 

Each worldly wish, each worldly care repress'd, 

A self-approving- heart alone possess'd, 

Content, to bounteous Heaven I'll leave the rest.' 

Thus spoke the Bard : but not one friendly power 
With nod assentive crown'd the parting hour; 
No eastern meteor glared beneath the sky, 
No dextral omen : Nature heaved a sigh 
Prophetic of the dire impending blow, 
The presage of her loss, and Britain's wo. 
Already portion'd, unrelenting fate 
Had made a pause upon the number'd date'; 
Behind stood Death, too horrible for sight. 
In darkness clad, expectant, pruned for flight ; 
Pleased at the word, the shapeless monster sped. 
On eager message to the humble shed. 
Where, wrapt by soft poetic visions round, 
Sweet slumbering, Fancy's darling-son he found. 
At his approach the silken pinion'd train. 
Affrighted, mount aloft, and quit the brain, 
Wliich late they fann'd. Now other scenes tban dala 
Of woody pride, succeed, or flowery vales : 
As when a sudden tempest veils the sky. 
Before serene, and streaming lightnings fly. 
The prospect shifts, and pitchy volumes roll. 
Along the drear expanse, from pole to pole ; 
Terrific horrors all the void invest, 
Whilst the arch spectre issues forth confest. 
The Bard beholds him beckon to the tomb 
Of yawning night, eternity's dread womb ; 
In vain attempts to fly, th' impassive air 
Retards his steps, and yields him to despair ; 
He feels a gripe that thrills through every vein. 
And panting struggles in the fatal chain. 
Here paused the fell destroyer to survey 
The pride, the boast, of man, his destined prey; • 
Prepared to strike, he poised aloft the dart. 
And plunged tlie steel in Virtue's bleeding heart ; 
Abhorrent, back the springs of life rebound. 
And ieat'e on Nature's face a grisly wound, 
A wound euroH'd among Britannia's woes. 
That ages yet to follow cannot close. 



8 



COMMENDATORY VCKSliS. 



O Goldsmith ! how shall Sorrow now essay 
To murmur out her slow incondite lay 1 
In what sad accents mourn the luckless hour. 
That yielded thee to unrelenting power ; 
Thee, the proud boast of all the tuneful train 
That sweep the lyre, or swell the polish'd strain! 
Much-honour'd Bard ! if my untutor'd verse 
Could pay a tribute worthy of thy hearse, 
With fearless hands I'd build the fane of praise, 
And boldly strew the never-fading bays. 
But, ah ' with thee my guardian genius fled, 
And pillow'd in thy tomb his silent head : 
Pain'd Memory alone behind remains, 
And pensive stalks the solitary plains, 
Rich in her sorrows ; honours without art 
She pays in tears redundant from the heart. 
And say, what boots it o'er thy hallow'd dust 
To heap the graven pile, or laurell'd bust ; 
Since by thy hands already raised on high, 
\V"e see a fabric tow'ring to the sky ; 
Where, hand in hand with Time, the sacred lore 
Shall travel on, till Nature is no more 1 



LINES BY W. WOTTY. 

Adieu, ^vveet Bard ! to each fine feeling true, 
Thy virtues many, and thy foibles few, — 
Those form'd to charm e'en vicious minds, and tliesa 
With harmless mirth the social soul to please. 
Another's wo thy heart could ahvays melt : 
None gave more free, for none more deeply felt. 
Sweet Bard, adieu ! thy own harmonious lays 
Have sculptured out thy monument of praise: 
Yes, these survive to time's remotest day ; 
While drops the bust, and boastful tombs decay. 
Reader, if number'd in the filuse's train. 
Go, tune the lyre, and imitate his strain ; 
But, if no poet thou, reverse the plan. 
Depart in peace, and imitate the man 



THE TRAVELLER; 



A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY. 



DEDICATION. 

TO THE REV. HENRY GOLDSJllTH. 

Dear Sie^— I am sensible that the friendship be- 
tween us can acquire no new force from the ceremo- 
nies of a dedication ; and perhaps it dem.ands an excuse 
thus to prefix your name to my attempts, which you 
decline giving with your own. But as a part of this 
poem was formerly written to you from Switzerland, the 
whole can now, with propriety, be only inscribed to 
you. It will also throw a light upon many parts of 
it, when the reader understands, that it is addressed to 
a man who, despising fame and fortune, has retired 
early to happiness and obscurity, with an income of 
forty pounds a-year. 

I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of your 
humble choice. You have entered upon a'*sacred 
office, where the harvest is great, and the labourers are 
but few ; while you have left the field of ambition, 
where the labourers are many, and the harvest not 
worth cari-ying away. But of all kinds of ambition — 
what from, the refinement of the times, from different 
systems of criticism, and from the divisions of party — 
that which pursues poetical fame is the wildest. 

Poetry makes a principal amusement among un- 
polished nations ; but in a country verging to the ex- 
tremes of refinement, painting and music come in for 
a share. As these offer the feeble mind a less labori- 
ous entertainment, they at first rival poetry, and at 
length supplant her ; they engross all that favour 
B 2 



10 THE TRAVELLER. 

once shewn to her, and though but younger sisters, 
seize upon the elder's birthright. 

Yet, however this art may be neglected by the power- 
ful, it is still iu greater danger from the mistaken efforti 
of the learned to improve it. What criticisms have 
we not heard of late in favour of blank verse and Pin- 
daric odes, choruses, anapests and iambics, alliterative 
care and happy negligence ! Every absurdity has now 
a champion to defend it ; and as he is generally much 
in the wrong, so he has always much to say j for error 
is ever talkative. 

But there is an enemy to this art still more danger- 
ous, — I mean party. Party entirely distorts the judg- 
ment, and destroys the taste. When the mind is once 
infected with this disease, it can only find pleasure in 
what contributes to increase the distemper. Like the 
tiger, that seldom desists from pursuing man after 
having once preyed upon human flesh, the reader, who 
has once gratified his appetite with calumny, makes 
ever after the most agreeable feast upon murdered 
reputation. Such readers generally admire some half- 
witted thing, who wants to be thought a bold man, 
having lost the character of a wise one. Him they 
dignify with the name of poet : his tawdry lampoons 
are called satires; his turbulence is said to be force 
and his frenzy fire. 

W hat reception a poem may find, which has neither 
abuse, party, nor blank verse to support it, 1 cannot 
tell, nor am I solicitous to know. My aims are right. 
Without espousing the cause of any party, I have at- 
tempted to moderate the rage of all. I have endea- 
voured to shew, that there may be equal happiness in 
states that are differently governed from our own ; that 
every state has a particular principle of happiness, and 
that this principle in each may be carried to a mis- 
chievous excess. There are few can judge better than 
yourself how far these positions are illustrated in this 
poem. I am, dear Sir, your most affectionate brother, 
Oliver Goldsmith, 



11 



THS fRAVELLER. 



Remote, unfriendecf, jsaelancholy, slow. 
Or by the lazy ScheW, or wandering Po ; 
Or onward, where the rude Cariathian boor 
Against the houseless stranger ehuts the door , 
Or where Campania's plain forsaien. lies, 
A weary waste expanding to the skies: 
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see. 
My heart untravell'd fondly turns to thee ; 
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove a lengthening chaiti. 

Eternal blessmgs crown my earliest friend. 
And round his dwelling guardian saints attersd'. 
Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire 
To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire 1 
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair. 
And every stranger finds a ready chair ! 
Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crowijv<j<, 
Where all the ruddy family around 
Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail. 
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; 
Or press the bashful stranger to his food, 
And learn the luxury of doing good ! ? 

But me, not destined such delights to share» 
My prime of life in wandering spent, and cai* ; 
Impell'd, with steps unceasing, to pursue 
Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view, 
That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, 
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies : 
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone. 
And find no spot of all the world my own. 



12 THE TRAVELLER. 

E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 
And, placed on high above the storm's career. 
Look downward where a hundred realms appear: 
Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, 
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. 

VVhen thus Creation's charms around combine. 
Amidst the store should thankless pride repine 1 
Say, should the philosophic mind disdain 
That good which makes each humbler bosom vain? 
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can. 
These little things are great to little man ; 
And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind 
Exults in all the good of all mankind. 
Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendour 

crown 'd ; 
Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round' 
Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale ; 
Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale ; 
For me your tributary stores combine. 
Creation's heir, the world — the world is mine ! 

As some lone miser, visiting his store. 
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er. 
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill. 
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still : 
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise. 
Pleased with each good that Heaven to mail 

supplies; 
Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, 
To see the sum of human bliss so small : 
And oft I wish, amidst the scene to find 
Some spot to real happiness consign'd, 
Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rea» 
May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. 
But where to find that happiest spot below 
Who can direct, when all pretend to know 1 
The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone 
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own } 
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 
And his long nights of revelry and ease ; 



THE TRAVELLER. IS 

The naked negro, panting at the Line, 
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine. 
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave. 
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. 
Such is the patriot's boast where'er we roam. 
His first, best country, ever is at home. 
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare. 
And estimate the blessings which they share. 
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find 
An equal portion dealt to all mankind ; 
As different good, by art or nature given. 
To different nations makes their blessings even. 

Nature, a mother kind alike to all. 
Still grants her bliss at labour's earnest call: 
With food as well the peasant is supplied 
On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side ; 
And though the rocky crested summits frown. 
These rocks by custom turn to beds of down. 
From art more various are the blessings sent,— 
Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content. 
Yet these each other's power so strong contest. 
That either seems destructive of the rest. 
Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails 
And honour sinks where commerce long prevails. 
Hence every state, to one loved blessing prone 
Conforms and models life to that alone. 
Each to the favourite happiness attends, 
And spurns the plan that aims at other ends; 
Till carried to excess in each domain. 
This favourite good begets peculiar pain. 

But let us try these truths with closer eyes, 
And trace them through the prospect as it lies ; 
Here, for a while, my proper cares resign'd, 
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind ; 
Like yon neglected shrub at ra-idom cast. 
That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. 

Far to the right, where Apennine ascends. 
Bright as the summer, Italy extends ; 
Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, 
Woods over woods in gay theatric pride • 

6 



14 THE TRAVELLUK. 

While oft some temple's mouldering tops between 
With venerable grandeur mark the scene. 

Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast. 
The sons of Italy were surely blest : 
Whatever fruits in different climes are found, 
That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground ; 
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, 
Whose bright succession decks the varied year; 
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die ; 
These "here disporting own the kindred soil. 
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; 
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand, 
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. 

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows. 
And sensual bliss is all this nation knows. 
In florid beauty groves and fields appear, 
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. 
Contrasted faults through all his manners reign : 
Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive, vain; 
Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue I 
And e'en in penance planning sins anew. 
All evils here contaminate the mind. 
That opulence departed leaves behind : 
For wealth was theirs ; not far removed the date. 
When Commerce proudly flourish'd through the state 
At her command the palace learn'd to rise. 
Again the long-fall'n column sought the skies ; 
The canvass glow'd beyond e'en nature warm. 
The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form : 
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, 
Commerce on other shores display'd her sail ; 
While nought remain'd, of all that riches gave, 
But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave : 
And late the nation found, with fruitless skill, 
Its former strength was but plethoric ill. 

Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied 
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride • 
From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n raind 
An easy compensation seem to find. 



THE TRAVELLER. 15 

Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd. 
The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade ; 
Processions form'd for piety and love, 
A mistress or a saint in every grove. 
By sports like these are all their cares beguil'dj 
The sports of children satisfy the child : 
Each nobler aim, repress'd by long control, 
Novc sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; 
While low delights succeeding fast behind, 
In happier meanness occupy the mind : 
As in those dooms where Cffisars once bore sv^ay. 
Defaced by time, and tottering in decay. 
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead. 
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; 
And, wondering man could want the larger pile. 
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 

My soul, turn from them ! turn we to survey 
Where rougher climes a nobler race display. 
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread. 
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread : 
No product here the barren hills afford, 
But man and steel, the soldier and his sword; 
No vernal blooms their torpid rocks a nay. 
But winter lingering chills the lap of May ; 
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, 
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 

Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm. 
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 
Though poor the peasant's hut, his feast though small, 
He sees his little lot the lot of all ; 
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head 
To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; 
No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal 
To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; 
But calm, and bred in ignoralice and toil. 
Each wish contracting, fits him to tne soil. 
Cheerful, at morn, he wakes from short repose. 
Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes j 
With patient angle trolls the finny deep. 
Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the steep; 



16 THE TRAVELLER. 

Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way 
And drags the struggling savage into day. 
At night returning, every labour sped. 
He sits him down the monarch of a shed ; 
Smiles by a cheerful fire, and round surveys 
His children's looks that brighten at the blaze. 
While his loved partner, boastful of her hoard 
Displays her cleanly platter on the board ; 
And haply too some pilgrim, thither led. 
With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 

Thus every good his native wilds impart, 
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; 
And e'en those ills that round his mansion rise. 
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. 
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms. 
And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms; 
And as a child, when scaring sounds molest. 
Clings close and closer to the mother's breast. 
So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar. 
But bind him to his native mountains more. 

Such are the charms to barren states assign'd . 
Their wants but few, their wishes all confined : 
Yet let them only share the praises due, — 
If few their wants, their pleasures are but few ; 
For every want that stimulates the breast. 
Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest. 
Hence from such lands each pleasing science flies; 
That first excites desire, and then supplies ; 
Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, 
To fill the languid pause with finer joy ; 
Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame. 
Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame. 
Their level life is but a smouldering fire. 
Nor quench'd by want, nor fann'd by strong desire ; 
Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer 
On some high festival of once a-year, 
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire. 
Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. 

But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow, — 
Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low; 



THE TRAVELLER. 17 

For, as refinement stops, from sire to son' 

Unalter'd, unimproved the manners run ; 

And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart. 

Fall blunted from each indurated heart. 

Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast 

May sit like falcons cowering on the nest ; 

But all the gentler morals, — such as play [vi^ay, — 

Through life's more cultured walks, and charm the 

These, far dispersed, on timorous .pinions fly. 

To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 

To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, 
I turn ; and France displays her bright domain. 
Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease. 
Pleased with thyself, wnom all the world can please. 
How often have I led thy sportive choir. 
With tuneless pipe beside the murmuring Loire ! 
"Where shading elms along the margin grew, 
And, fresheu'd from the wave, the zephyr flew; 
And haply, tiiough my harsh touch falt'ring still, 
But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill ; 
Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, 
And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. 
Alike all ages : dames of ancient days 
Have led their children through the mirthful maze; 
And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore. 
Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore. 

So blest a life these thoughtless realms display; 
Thus idly busy rolls their world away : 
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear. 
For honour forms the social temper here : 
Honour, that praise which real merit gains. 
Or e'en imaginary worth obtains. 
Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand, 
It shifts in splendid traffic round the land ; 
From courts to camps, to cottages it strays. 
And all are taught an avarice of praise : 
They please, are pleased ; they give to get esteem ; 
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. 

But while this softer art their bliss supplies, 
[t gives their follies also room to rise ; 



18 THE TRAVELLER. 

For praise too dearly loved, or warmly £oaght. 
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought : 
And the weak soul, within itself unblest. 
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. 
Hence Ostentation here, with tawdry art. 
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart; 
Here Vanity assumes her pert grimace, 
And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace ; 
Here beggar Pride defrauds her daily cheer. 
To boast one splendid banquet once a-year : 
The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws, 
Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. 

To men of other raiuds my fancy flies, 
Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies- 
Methinks her patient sons before me stand, 
Where the broad ocean leans against the land, 
And, sedulous to stop the coming tide. 
Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. 
Onward, methinks, and diligently slow, 
The firm connected bulwark seems to grow. 
Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar. 
Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore j 
While the pent Ocean, rising o'er the pile. 
Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile; 
The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale, 
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail. 
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, 
A new creation rescued from his reign. 

Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil 
Impels the native to repeated toil, 
Industrious habits in each bosom reign. 
And industry begets a love of gain. 
Hence all the good from opulence that springs, 
With all those ills superfluous treasure brings. 
Are here display'd. Their much-loved wealth imparts 
Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts; 
But view them closer, craft and fraud appear; 
Even liberty itself is barter'd here : 
At gold's superior charms all freedom flies, 
Tha needy sell it, and the rich man buys. 



THE TRAVELLER. 19 

A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves. 
Here wretches seek dishonourable graves. 
And, calmly bent, to servitude conform, 
Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. 

Heavens ! how unlike their Belgic sires of old ! 
Hough, poor, content, ungovernably bold. 
War in each breast, and freedom on each brow; 
Bow much unlike the sons of Britain now! 

Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing. 
And flies where Britain courts the western spring; 
Where lawns extend that s.corn Arcadian pride, 
And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide. 
There all around the gentlest breezes stray. 
There gentle music melts on every spray ; 
Creation's mildest charms are there combined. 
Extremes are only in the master's mind ! 
Stern o'er each bosom Reason holds her state. 
With daring aims irregularly great, 
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 
I see the lords of human kind pass by ; 
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band. 
By forms unfashion'd, fresh from nature's hand. 
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul. 
True to imagined right above control, — 
While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan, 
And learns to venerate himself as man. 

Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured here 
T hine are those charms that dazzle and endear ! 
Too blest indeed were such without alloy ; 
B ut, foster'd e'en by Freedom, ills annoy : 
T hat independence B-ritons prize too high, 
K eeps man from man, and breaks the social tie ; 
T he self-dependent lordlings stand alone. 
An claims that bind and sweeten life unknown; 
Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held. 
Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd; 
Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, 
R eprest ambition struggles round her shore ; 
Till, overwrought, the general system feels 
Its motion stop, or frenzy fire the tvheels. 



20 THE TRAVELLER. 

I'loT this the worst. As Nature's ties decay, 
As duty, love, and honour fail to sway. 
Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law. 
Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. 
Hence all obedience bows to these alone. 
And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown : 
Till time may come, when stript of all her charms; 
The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms, 
Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame. 
Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame 
One sink of level avarice shall lie. 
And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd die. 

Yet think not, thus when Freedom's ills I state, 
I mean to flatter kings, or court the great : 
Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire. 
Far from my bosom drive tli£ low desire ! 
And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel 
The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel j 
Thou transitory flower, alike undone 
By proud contempt, or favour's fostering sun- 
Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure i 
I only would repress them to secure : 
For just experience tells, in every soil. 
That those that think must govern those that toil; 
And all that Freedom's highest aims can reach. 
Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each. 
Hence, should one order disproportion'd grow. 
Its double weight must ruin all below. 

Oh, then, how blind to all that truth requires. 
Who think it freedom when a part aspires ! 
Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms. 
Except when fast approaching danger warms: 
But when contending chiefs blockade the throne 
Contracting regal power to stretch their own ; 
When I behold a factious band agree 
To call it freedom when themselves are free ; 
Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw. 
Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law ; 
The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam. 
Pillaged from slaves to purchase slaves at home, — 



fr— 



THE TRAVELLER. 21 

Fear, pity, justice, indignation, start. 
Tear otF reserve, and bare my swelling heart; 
Till, half a patriot^ half a coward grown, 
I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. 

Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour. 
When first ambition struck at regal power j 
And thus, polluting honour in its source. 
Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. 
Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore. 
Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore 1 
Seen all her triumphs but destruction hasce. 
Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste? 
Seen Opulence, her grandeur to maintain. 
Lead stern Depopulation in her train. 
And over fields, where scatter'd hamlets rose. 
In barren, solitary pomp repose 1 
Have we not seen, at Pleasure's lordly call. 
The smiling, long-frequented village fall 1 
Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay 'd. 
The modest matron, and the blushing maid. 
Forced from their homes, a melancholy train. 
To traverse climes beyond the western main. 
Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around. 
And Niagara stuns with thundering sound 1 

E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays 
Through tangled forests, and through dangerous waySj 
Where beasts with man divided empire claim. 
And the brown Indian maiks with murderous aim ; 
Theue, while above the giddy tempest flies. 
And all around distressfu-l yells arise. 
The pensive exile, bending with his wo. 
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go. 
Casts a long look where England's glories shine, 
And bids his bosom sympathize with mine. 

Vain, very vain, my weary search to find 
That bliss which only centres in the mind : 
Why have I stray'd from pleasure and repose. 
To seek a good each government bestows 1 
In every government, though terrors reign. 
Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain. 



22 THE TRAVELLfia. 

How small, of all that human hearts endure. 

That part which laws or kings can cause or cure! 

Still to ourselves in every place consign'd. 

Our own fJicity we make or find : 

With secret course which no loud storms annoVj 

Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. 

The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 

Lukes iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel, 

To men remote from power but rarely known, 

Leave reason faith and conifcieiice, all our owb. 



DESERTED VILLAGE. 



TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 

Deah Sir, — I can have no expectations, in an ad- 
dress of this kind, either to add to your reputation, or 
to establish my own. You can gain nothing from 
my admiration, as I am ignorant of that art in which 
you are said to excel ; and I may lose much by the 
severity of your judgment, as few have a juster taste 
in poetry than you. Settmg interest, therefore, aside, 
to which I never paid much attention, I must be 
indulged at present in following my affections. The 
only dedication I ever made was to my orother, be- 
cause I loved him better than most other men. He 
is since dead. Permit me to inscribe this Poem 
to you. 

How far you may be pleased with the versifica- 
tion and mere mechanical parts of this attempt, I 
do not pretend to inquire : but I know you will ob- 
ject (and indeed several of our best and wisest 
friends concur in the opinion), that the depopulation 
it deplores is no where to be seen, and the disorders 
it laments are only to be found in the poet's own ima- 
gination. To this I can scarcely make any other 
answer, than that I sincerely believe what I have 
written ; that I have taken all possible pains, in my 
country excursions, for these four or live years past, 
to be certain of what I allege ; and that all my views 
and inquiries have led me to believe those miseries 
re»i, which I here attempt to display. But this is. 
not the place to enter into an inquiry v.'hether the 



24 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

country be depopulating or not : the discussion would 
take up much room, and I should prove myself, at 
best, an indifferent politician, to tire the reader with 
a long preface, when I want his unfatigued attention 
to a long poera. 

In regretting the depopulation of the country, I 
inveigh against the increase of our luxuries ; and here 
also I expect the shout of modern politicians against 
me. For twenty or thirty years past, it has been the 
fashion to consider luxury as one of the greatest na- 
tional advantages ; and all the wisdom of antiquity 
in that particular as erroneous. Still, however^ I 
must remain a professed ancient on that head, and 
continue to think those luxuries prejudicial to states 
by which so many vices are introduced, and so many 
kingdoms have been undone. Indeed, so much has 
been poured out of late on the other side of the ques- 
tion, that merely for the sake of novelty and variety, 
one would sometimes wish to be in the right. 
I am, dear sir, 
Your sincere friend, and ardent admirer, 

Olives Goldsmith, 



2i 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE.* 



Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain. 

Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swam, 

Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 

And parting summer's lingering blooms delay 'd : 

Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, 

How often have 1 loiter'd o'er thy green, 

Where humble happiness endear'd each scene ! 

How often have 1 paused on every charm, 

The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill. 

The decent church that topt the neighbouring bill, 

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade. 

For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 

How often have 1 blest the coming day, 

When toil remitting lent its turn to play. 

And all the village tiain, from labour free. 

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree | 

While many a pastime circled in the shade, 

The young contending as the old survey 'd ; 

And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground. 

And sleights of art and feats of strength went round; 

And still as each repeated pleasure tired, 

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired ; 

The dancing pair that simply sought renown 

liy holding out to tire each other dovv-n ; 

The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 

While secret laughter titter'd round the place; 

* The locality of this popin is supposed to be Lisioy, near Eallvma- 
han, wiiere tlie pott's brollitr Heury had his living;. As usiidl in 
Biich cast's, tile place afterwards becanie the fasliionuble resort o. 
poetical piluTinis, and paid tlie customary penalty of fiirnishinpf relic* 
for the curious. Tlie hawthorn bush has been converted into suuti- 
iKtxrs, and now adorns the cabinets of poetical virtuosi. 

c 



SG THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, 

The matron's glance that would those looks reprove: 

These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like 

these, 
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; 
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, 
These were thy charms — but iiU these charms are fled. 

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn I 
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen 
And Desolation saddens all thy green : 
One only master grasps the whole domain. 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 
No more thy grassy brook reflects the day. 
But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way; 
Along thy glades, a solitary guest. 
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; 
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies. 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries • 
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all. 
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ; 
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
Far, far away thy children leave the land. 

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. 
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made;- 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 

A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 
When every rood of ground maintain'd its man : 
For him light Labour spread her wholesome store. 
Just gave what life required, but gave no more; 
His best companions, innocence and health. 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 
But times are alter'd : trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; 
Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose, 
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 27 

And every want to luxury allied, 

And every pang that folly pays to pride. 

Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom. 

Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, 

'J'hose healthful sports that graced the peaceful scenef 

Lived in each look, and brighten'd all the green, — 

Tliese, far departing, seek a kinder shore. 

And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour, 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
Here as I take my solitary rounds. 
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds. 
And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 
Ilemembrance wakes with all her busy train, 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 

In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
In all my griefs — and God has given my share— 
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown. 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
'J'o husband out life's taper at the close. 
And keep the flame from wasting, by repose : 
I still had hopes — for pride attends ns still — 
Amidst the swains to shew my book-learn'd skill. 
Around my fire an evening group to draw. 
And tell of all I felt and all I saw ; 
And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue. 
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past. 
Here to return, and die at home at last. 

O blest retirement, friend to life's decline. 
Retreat from cares, that never must be mine ! 
How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, 
A youth of labour with an age of ease ; 
Who quits a world where strong temptations try. 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep. 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deepj 
No surly porter stands in guilty state. 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 



28 ■niE DESERTED VILlAOB. 

But on he moves to meet iiis latter end. 
Angels around befriending virtue's friend; 
Sinks to tliegr^ve with unperceived decay, 
While resignation gentlv slopes the way ; 
And, all liis prospects brightening to the last. 
His heaven commences ere the world be past. 

Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close, 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
There, as I past with careless steps and slow. 
The mingling notes came soften'd from below ; 
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, 
The sober herd that low'd to meet their young; 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool. 
The playful children just let loose from school ; 
The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind, 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind, — • 
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade. 
And fill'd each pause the nightinijale had iridde. 
But now the sounds of population fail, 
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, 
No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread. 
But all the bloomy flush of life is fled : 
All but yon widow'd, solitary thing-, 
l"hat feebly bends beside the plashy spring; 
She, wretched matron, forced in age, for biead. 
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread. 
To pick her wintry fagot from, the thorn. 
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; 
She only left of all the harmless train. 
The sad historian of the pensive plain. 

Near yonder copse, where once tlie garden smiled, 
And still where many a garden-flower grows wild, 
'Jhere, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose. 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear. 
And passing rich with forty pounds a-vear; 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race. 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wisb'd to change, his place j 
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power. 
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; 



THE UESEIITED VILLAGE. 29 

Far other aims his heart had learn'il to prize, 
More bent to raise tlie wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train. 
He chid tlieir wanderings, but relieved their pain : 
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest, 
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; 
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to sta\'. 
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away, 
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were 

won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow. 
And quite forgot their vices in their wo : 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan. 
His pity gave ere charity be.gan. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And e'en his failings lean'd to \ iriue's side ; 
But in his duty prompt at ever\ call. 
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt, for all; 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies. 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay^ 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid. 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns disinay'd. 
The reverend champion stood. At his control. 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace. 
His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; 
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, 
And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray. 
The service past, around the pious man. 
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran; 
E'en children follow'd, with endearing wile, 
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile ; 



so THE liESKKTEI) VH.liAUIS. 

ilis ready smile a parent's warmth express'd ; 

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distress'd; 

To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given, 

But all his serious thou2;lits had rest in heaven. 

As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, 

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm. 

Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread 

Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay. 
There in his noisy mansion, skiUM to rule. 
The village master taught his little school. 
A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 
I knew him well, and every truant knew : 
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
Full well they laugh'd, with counterfeited glee, 
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; 
Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd; 
Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, 
The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
The village all declared how much he knew, 
'Twas certain he could write and cipher too ; 
Lands he could measure, terms and iid,es presage. 
And e'en the story ran — that he could gauge: 
In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill. 
For e'en itiough vanquish'd he could argue still; 
While words of learned length, and thund'ring sound, 
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew. 
That one small head could carry all he knew. 
But past is all his fame. The very spot 
Where many a time he triumph'd is forgot. 

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high. 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye. 
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts 

inspired. 
Where graybeard mirth, and smiling toil, tetired. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 81 

Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound. 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Tmagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlour splendours of that festive place : 
The white-wash'd wall, the nicely-sanded floor, 
The varnish'd clock that click"d behind the door; 
The chest, contrived a double debt to pay, 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 
The pictures phiced for ornament and use. 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, 
With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gays 
While broken tea cups, wisely kept for show. 
Hanged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. 
Vain transitory splendours I Could not all 
Reprieve tlie tottering mansion from its fall ? 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart; 
'Thither no more the peasant shall repair. 
To sweet oblivion of bis daily care ; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
No more the smith his dusky brow sliall clear. 
Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear. 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain. 
These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, 
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway; 
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined : 
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade. 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd, — 
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain. 
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 



32 THE DESERTED ViLLAGE. 

And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts detoy, 
The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy ? 

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey 
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 
Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand 
Between a splendid and a happy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore. 
And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; 
Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish, abound. 
And rich men flock from all the world around. 
Yet count our gainis : this wealth is but a name 
That leaves our useful products still the same. 
Not so the loss : the man of wealth and pride 
Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; 
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds. 
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds : 
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth. 
Has robb'd the neighbouring fieldsof half their growth; 
His seat, where solitary sports are seen. 
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; 
Around the world each needful product flies. 
For all the luxuries the world supplies :— 
While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasure all. 
In barren splendour feebly waits its fall. 

As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, 
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign. 
Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies. 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; 
But when those charms are past — for charms are frail— 
When time advances, and when lovers fail. 
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, 
In all the glaring impotence of dress : 
Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd ; 
In Nature's simplest charms at first array 'd : 
But verging to decfine, its splendours rise, 
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
While, scourged by famine from the smiling land. 
The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 
And while he sinks, without one arm to save, 
I'he country blooms — a garden and a grave. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 33 

Where, then, ah! where shall poverty reside. 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous priJe? 
If to some common's fenceless li[nits stray 'd. 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, 
Tho>e fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide. 
And e'en the bare-worn comiTion is denied. 

If to the city sped, whnt waits him there? 
To see profuMon that he must not share ; 
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know 
Extorted from his fellow-creatures' wo. 
Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, 
I'here the pale artist plies his sickly trade ; 
Here while the prond their long-drawn pomps display, 
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
'I'he dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign, 
Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train ; 
'J'uinultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, 
'i'he rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 
Sure these denote one universal joy ! 
Are these thy serious thoughts? — Ah, turn thine eyes 
Where the poor houseless shivering female lies: 
She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest. 
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest . 
Her inodest looks the cottage might adorn, 
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn: 
Wow lost to all — her friends, her virtue fled. 
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head. 
And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower. 
With heavy heart deplores lint luckless hoar, 
W hen idly first, ambitious of tlie town, 
She left her wheel, and robes of country brown. 

Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train. 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain 1 
E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led. 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread 1 

Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene, 
Where half the convex world intrudes betweeo, 
C2 



34 THE DliSEarKD VILLAGE. 

Through torrid tracts with fainting- steps they go, 

Wiiere wild Altania* murmurs to their wo. 

Far different there from all that charm'd before. 

The various terrors of that horrid shore ; 

Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 

And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 

Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, 

But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 

Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd. 

Where the darlc scorpion gathers death around; 

Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 

The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 

Where crouching tigers wait tlieir hapless prey. 

And savage men, more murdVous still than they; 

While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies. 

Mingling the ravaged landscape witli the skies. 

Far different these from every former scene. 

The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, 

The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 

That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. 

Good Heaven ! whatsorrowsgloom'dthat partingday 
That call'd them from their native walks away; 
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past. 
Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their Tast, 
And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain 
For seats like these beyond the western main ; 
And, shuddering still to face the distant deep, ■ 
Return 'd and wept, and still retum'd to weep ! ' 
The good old sire the first prepared to go 
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' wo ; 
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave. 
He only wish'd for worlds bevond the grave : 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 
The fond companion of his helpless years. 
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms. 
And left a lover's for her father's arms : 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes. 
And blest the cot where every pleasure rose, 

* The Altama (or Altamaha) is a -ivcr in the province of Georgia* 
United States. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 35 

And kiss'd her tlioughtless babes witli many a tear. 
And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear; 
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
In all the silent manliness of grief. 

O liixury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree. 
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! 
How do thy potions, with insidious joy, 
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown. 
Boast of a florid vigour not their own : 
At every draught more large and large they grow, 
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy wo ; 
Till, sapp'd their strength, and every part unsouaij 
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 

E'en now the devastation is begun. 
And half the business of destruction done ; 
E'en now, methinks, as pondering here 1 stand, 
1 see the rural Virtues leave the land. 
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail 
That idly waiting flaps with every gale, 
Downward they move, a melancholy band. 
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
Contented Toil, and hospitable Care, 
And kind connubial Tenderness, are there ^ 
And Piety with wishes placed above. 
And steady Loyalty, and faithful Love. 
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid. 
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; 
Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame, 
Tc catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ; 
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried. 
My shame in crowds, my solitary prido ; 
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my wo. 
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ', 
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel. 
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well ! 
Farewell ; and oh ! where'er thy voice be tried. 
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side. 
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow. 
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow. 



SC THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 
Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime ; 
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; 
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
Teach him, that states of native strength possest. 
Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay* 
As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away ; 
While self-dependent power can time defy. 
As iocks resist the- billows and the sky. 



S7 

THE HERMIT; 

A BALLAD. 



The following letter, addressed to the printer of the St. James'. Chrc 
"^ nicle, appeared in that paper in June, 1767. 

Sir —As there is nothing I dislike so much as 
newspaper controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit 
me to be as concise as possible in informing a cor- 
respondent of yours, that I recommended BlainviUe s 
Travels, because I thought the book was a good one, 
and 1 think so still. 1 said I was told by the book- 
seller that it was then first published ; but m that, it 
seems, I was misinformed, and my readmg was not 
extensive enough to set me right. 

Another correspondent of yours accuses me of 
having taken a ballad I published some time ago, 
from one* by the ingenious Mr. Percy. I do not 
think there is any great resemblance between the two 
pieces in question. If there be any, his ballad is 
taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years 
ao-o • and he (as we both considered these things as 
trifle's at best) told me with his usual good humour, 
the next time I saw him, that he had taken my plan 
to form the fragments of Shakspeare into a ballad of 
his own. He then read me his little Cento, if I may 
so call it, and I highly approved it. ^ Such petty 
anecdotes as these are scarcely worth pnnimg ; and, 
were it not for the busy disposition of some of your 
correspondents, the public should never have known 
that he owes me the hint of his ballad, or that I am 
obliged to his friendship and learning for communica- 
tions of a much more important nature. — I am, Sir, 
yours, &c. Oliver Goldsmith. 

• The Friar of Orders Gray. Reliquei of Annent Poetry, wU ». 
book 2, No. 17. 



3» 



THE HERMIT. 



*TuEN, gentle Hermit of the dale. 
And guide my lonely way. 

To where yon taper cheers the vale 
With hospitable ray. 

* For here forlorn and lost I tread, 
With fainting steps and slow, 

Where wilds, immeasurably spread. 
Seem length'ning as I go.' 

' Forbear, my son,' the Hermit cries, 
* To tempt the dangerous gloom; 

For yonder faithless phantom flies 
To lure thee to thy doom. 

'Here to the houseless child of want 

My door is open still ; 
And though my portion is but scant, 

I give it with good will. 

'Then turn to-night, and freely share 
Whate'er my cell bestows ; 

My rushy couch and frugal fare. 
My blessing and repose. 

' No flocks that range the valley free 

To slaughter 1 condemn ; 
Taught by that Power that pities me, 

I learn to pity them : 

'But from the mountain's grassy side 

A guiltless feast I bring ; 
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied. 

And water from the spring. 

'Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego | 
All earth-born %ares are wrong : 

Man wants but little here below. 
Nor wants that little long.' 



THE HERMIT. 

Soft as the dew from heaven descends, 

His gentle accents fell : 
The modest stranger lowly bends, 

And follows to the cell. 

Far in a wilderness obscure 

The lonely mansion lay, 
A refuge to the neighb'ring poor. 

And strangers led astray. 
No stores beneath its humble thatch 

Required a master's care ; 
The wicket, opening with a latch, 

Received the harmless pair. 

And now, when busy crowds retire 

To take their evening rest. 
The Hermit trimm'd hia little fire, 

And cheer'd his pensive guest : 

And spread his vegetable store," 
And gaily press'd and smiled ; 

And, skiU'd in legendary lore. 
The lingering hours beguiled. 

Around, in sympathetic mirth. 

Its tricks the kitten tries, 
The cricket chirrups on the hearth. 

The crackling fagot flies. 

But nothing could a charm impart 

To sooth the stranger's wo ; 
Tor grief was heavy at his heart, 

And tears began to flow. 

His rising cares the Hermit spied, 
With answering care oppress'd : 

And, ' Whence, unhappy youth,' he cried, 
♦The sorrows of thy breast 1 

' From better habitations spurn'd. 

Reluctant dost thou rove ? 
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, 

Or unregarded love ? 



40 THE HERMIT. 

• Alas! the joys that fortune brings 

Are trifling', and decay ; 
And those who prize the paltry things. 
More trifling still than they. 

'And what is friendship but a name, 

A charm that lulls to sleep ; 
A shade that follows wealth or fame. 

But leaves the wretch to weep 1 

'And love is still an emptier sound. 

The modern fair one's jest ; 
On earth unseen, or only found 

To warm the turtle's nest. 

'For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, 
And spurn the sex,' he said ; 

But while he spoke, a rising blush 
His love-lorn guest betray'd. 

Surprised he sees new beauties rise. 

Swift mantling to the view ; 
Like colours o'er the morning skies, 

As bright, as transient too. 

The bashful look, the rising breast. 

Alternate spread alarms : 
The lovely stranger stands confess'd 

A maid in all her charms. 

And, 'Ah ! forgive a stranger rude— 
A wretch forlorn,' she cried ; 

• Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude 

Where Heaven and you reside. 

• But let a maid thy pity share, 

Whom love has taught to strayj 
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
Companion of her way. 

' My father lived beside the Tyne, 

A wealthy lord was he : 
And all his wealth was mark'd as mine. 

He had but only roe. 



THE HERMIT. 41 

• To win me from his tender arms, 

Unuumber'd suitors came. 
Who praised me for impaled charms. 

And felt, or feign'd, a flame. 
' Each hour a mercenary crowd 

With richest proffers strove ; 
Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd. 

But never talk'd of love. 
'In humble, simplest habit clad, 

No wealth nor power had he ; 
Wisdom and worth were all he had. 

But these were all to me. 
*And when, beside me in the dale, 

He caroll'd lays of love, 
His breath lent fragrance to the gale. 

And music to the grove.* 

• The blossom opening to the day. 

The dews of heaven refined. 
Could nought of purity display 
To emulate his mind. 

• The dew, the bioiisjiu oii 4ft6 Um-. 

With charms mconstacl shme: 
Their charms were his, but, wo to me. 

Their constancy was mine. 
' For still I tried each fickle art. 

Importunate and vain; 
And while his passion touch'd my heart, 

I triumph'd in his pain : 
'Till, quite dejected with my scorn. 

He left me to my pride ; 
And sought a solitude forlorn. 

In secret, where he died. 
'But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, 

An-d well my life shall pay ; 
I'll seek the solitude he sought, 

And stretch me where he lay. 

• Tliis stanza vi3s preserved by Richard Arehdale, Esq. a member of 
the Irish Parliament, to whcim it was given by Goldsmith, aad w» 
Sxst inserted af'er the author's death. 



43 THE HERMIT. 

'And there forlorn, despairing, hid, 

I'll lay me down and die ; 
'Twas so for me that Edwin did. 

And so for him will I.' 

' Forbid it. Heaven !' the Hermit cried, 
And clasp'd her to his breast: 

The wondering fair one turn'd to chid©— 
'Twas Edwin's self that press'd ! 

'Turn, Angelina, ever dear, 

My charmer, turn to see 
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here. 

Restored to love and thee. 

•Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 
And every care resign : 

And shall we never, never part, 
My life — my all that's mine 

' No, never from this hour to part. 
We'll live and love so true. 

The sigh that rends thy constant heart- 
Shall r^vak xuy Edwin a too. 



4U 



THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.* 

A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE. 

Thanks, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter 
Ne'er ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter. 
The haunch was a picture for painters to study, 
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy ; 
Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help 

regretting 
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating : 
I had thoughts, in my chamber to place it in view. 
To be shewn to my friends as a piece of virtft ; 
As in some Irish houses, where things are so so, 
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show ; 
But for eating a rasher of what they take pride in. 
They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in. 
But hold — let me pause — don't I hear you pronounce. 
This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce 1 
Well, suppose it a bounce — sure a poet may try, 
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. 

But, my lord, it's no bounce : I protest, in my turn. 
It's a truth, and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn.t 
To go on with my tale : as I gazed on the haunch, 
I thought of a friend that was trustj' and stanch. 
So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest. 
To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best. 
Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose — 
'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's . 
But in parting v/ith these I was puzzled again. 
With the how, and the who, and the where, and the 

when. 
There's H— d, and C— y, and H— rth, and H—ff, 
I think they love venison — I know they love beef; 

* The description of the dinner party in tLis poem is imitated from 
Boileau's fdiirtli Safire. Boileau himself toolt the hint from Horace, 
I.ib. ii. Sat. 8. which has also beea imitated by Kegnier, Sat. 10. 

t Lord Clare's nephew. 



44 THE HAUWC.l OF VEiSlSON. 

There's my countryman, Higgins — oh, let him alone 
For marking a blunder, or picking a bone : 
But, hang it I tc poets who seldom can eat 
Your very good mutton's a very good treat ; 
Such dainties to them their health it might hurt. 
It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt. 

While thus I debated, in reverie centred, 
An acquaintance — a friend, as he call'd himself — 

enter'd ; 
An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he. 
And he smiled as he look'd at the venison and me,— 
' What have we got here 1 — Why, this is good eating! 
Your own, I suppose^ — or is it in waiting?' 
• Why, whose should it heV cried I, with a flounce, 
' I get these tilings often' — but that was a bounce : 
' Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, 
Are pleased to be kind — but I hate ostentation.' 

* If that be the case, then,' cried he, very gay, 
' I'm glad I have taken this house in my way : 
To-moiTow you take a poor dinner with me ; 
No words — I insist on't — precisely at three ; 
We'll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wits will be 

there : 
IMy acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my lord Clare. 
And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner, 
W^e wanted this venison to make out a dinner. 
What say you — a pasty ? it shall, and it must, 
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. 
Here, porter — this venison with me to Mile-end : 
No stirring, I beg — my dear friend — my dear friend !' 
Thus, snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind. 
And the porter and eatables follow'd behind. 

"Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf. 
And ' nobody with me at sea but myself ;'* 
Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, 
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty. 
Were things that I never disliked in my life. 
Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. 

* See the letters that pnssed between his Royal Hig)mes3 Heniv 
Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Groevenor. 12mo. 176!>. 



THE HAUNCH- Ol> VENISOxN. 45 

So next dav, in clue splendour to make my approach, 
I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach. 

When .come to the place where we all were to dine 
(A chair-lumber'd closet, just twelve feet by nine), 
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb 
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come ; 
' For I kne°w it,' he cried, ' both eternally fail, 
The one with his speeches, and t'other with 'I'hrale :* 
But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party 
With two full 3S clever, and ten times as hearty. 
The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew : 
They're both of them merry, and authors like you : 
The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge ; 
Some thinks he writes Cinna — he owns to Panurge.' 
While thus he described them, by trade and by name, 
They enter'd, and dinner was served as they came. 

At the top, a fried liver and bacon were seen ; 
At the bottom, was tripe in a swingmg tureen ; 
At the sides, there was spinage, and pudding made hot j 
In the middle, a place where the pasty— was not. 
Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion. 
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian ; 
So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound, 
While the bacon and liver went merrily round : 

But what vex'd me most was that d 'd Scottish 

rogue. 
With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his 

brogue ; 
And, ' Madam,' quoth he, ' may this bit be my poison, 
A prettier dinner I never set eyes on : 
Pray, a slice of your liver, though, may I be curst, 
But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst.' 
' The tripe !' quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, 
' I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week : 
I like these here dinners, so pretty and small ; 
But your friend there, the Doctor, eats nothing at all.' 
* O ho !' quoth my friend, ' he'll come on in a trice. 
He's keeping a corner for something that's nice : 

• An eminent London brewer, M.P. for the borough of Southwark, 
at whose table Dr. Johnson was a frequent guest. . 

.2D ** 



46 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 

There's a pasty.' — ' A pasty !' repeated the Jew, 

• I don't care if I keep a corner for't too.' 

• What the deil mon, a pasty !' re-echo'd the-Scot, 

• Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that.' 
' We'll all keep a corner,' the lady cried out; 
'We'll all keep a corner,' was echo'd about. 
While thus we resolved, and the pasty delay'd, 
With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid : 
A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, 
Waked Priam, in drawing his curtains by night. 
But we quickly found out — for who could mistake 

her? — 
That she came with some terrible news from the baker : 
And so it fell out ; for that negligent sloven 
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. 
Sad Philomel thus — but let similes drop — 
And now that I think on't, the story may stop. 

To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplaced, 
To send such good verses to one of your taste : 
You've got an odd something — a kind of discerning, 
A relish — a taste — sicken'd over by learning ; 
At least it's your temper, as very well known, 
That you think very slightly of all that's your own ; 
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, 
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. 



4f 



RETALIATION. 



Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the St 
James's Coffeehouse. One day, it was proposed to write epitaplison 
him. His country, dialect, and person, furnished subjects of witticism. 
He was called on for Retaliation, and, at their next meeting, pro- 
duced the following poem. 

Of old, when Scarron his companions invited. 
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united ; 
If our landlord* supplies us with beef and with fish. 
Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best 

dish : 
Our Deant shall be venison, just fresh from the plains; 
Our Burket shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains ; 
Our Win§ shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour. 
And Dick|l with his pepper shall heighten the savour ; 
Our Cumberland's^ sweetbread its place shall obtain. 
And Douglas** is pudding, substantial and plain ; 
Our Garrick'stt a salad, for in him we see 
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree : 
To make out the dinner, full certain 1 am. 
That RidgeJJ is anchovy, and Reynolds§§ is lamb ; 
That Hickey'sllll a capon, and, by the same rule, 
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. 

* The master of the St. James's Coffeehouse, where the Doctor, and 
tlie friends he has characterized in this poem, occasionally dined. 

+ Doctor Barnard, Dean of Derry, in Ireland, afterwards Bishop of 
Kilialoe. 

I The Risrht Hon. Edmund Burke. 

S Mr. William Burke, formerly secretary to General Conway, and 
member for Bedwin. 
li Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Granada, 

II Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of The West Indian, The Jew, 
and other dramatic works. 

** Dr. Doujrias, Canon of Windsor, and afterwards Bishop of Salis- 
bury, was himself a native of Scotland, and obtained considerable re- 
putation by his detection of the forgeries of his countrymen, Lauder 
and Bower. 

■ft David Garrick, Esq. 

\X Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish bar. 

5^ Sir Joshua Reynolds. 

:iii An eminent attorney* 



48 RETALIATION. 

At a dinner so various — at such a repast, 
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last? 
Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able. 
Till all my companions sink under the table; 
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head. 
Let me ponder, ami tell what I think of the dead. 

Here lies the good Dean, reunited to earth, 
Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with 

mirth : 
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt — 
At least, in six weeks I ceuld not find 'em out; 
Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em. 
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. 

Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such. 
We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much ; 
Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, 
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind: 
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his 

throat. 
To persuade Tommy Townshend* to lend him a vote ; 
V\ ho, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, 
And thought of convincing, while they thought of 

dining :t 
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit ; 
Too nice for a state*Sman, too proud for a wit ; 
For a patriot, too cool ; for a drudge, disobedient ; 
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. 
In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd or in place, sir, 
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. 

Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint, 
While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was 

in't : 
The pupil of impulse, it forced him along. 
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong ; 

» Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch, afterwards LorJ 
Sydney. 

t Mr. Burke's speeches in Parliament, thoujh distinguished by all 
the force of reasoning and eloquence of thfir lii2;lily-i;ifted aiitlior, 
were not always listened to with patience by Ins brother members, 
who notunfrequcntly tool; the opportunity of n-tirina: to dinner when 
he rose to sneak, 'lo this circumstance, wliiih procured for Uie ors 
tor the sobngucl of the Dimitr Lett, alUisicjn ia hei ■? made. 



RETALIATION. 49 

Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam. 
The coachman was tipsy, the cha'riot drove home . 
Would you ask for his merits 1 alas ! he had none ; 
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his 
own. 
Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at ; 
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet ! 
What spirits were his ! what wit and what whim ! 
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb !* 
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball I 
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all ! 
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, 
That we wish'd him full ten times a-day at Old Nick 
But missing his mirth and agreeable vein. 
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again. 

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts. 
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts j 
A flattering painter, who made it his care 
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are 
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine. 
And Comedy wonders at being so fine ; 
Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out, 
Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout. 
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd 
Of virtues and feelings, that Folly grov-fs proud ; 
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone. 
Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own. 
Say, where has our poet this malady caught. 
Or wherefore his characters thus without fault 1 
Say, was it, that vainly directing his view 
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, 
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, 
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself? 

Here Douglas retires from his tolls to relax. 
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks ; 
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, 
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant 
reclines : 

• Mr. Rirliard Burke having Bliglitly fractured an arm and a leg at 
different times, the Doctor has rallied him on tliese ai'cidents, au a 
kiod of retributi\e justice, for breaking justs upon otlier people. 

D 



h 



60 RETALIATION. 

When satire and censure encircled his throne, 
J fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own ; 
But now he is gone, and we want a detector, 
Our Dodds* shall be pious, our Kenrickst shall 

lecture ; 
MacpliersonJ write bombast, and call it a style ; 
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile : 
New Lauders§ and Bowers|| the Tweed shall cross 

over. 
No countryman living their tricks to discover; 
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, 
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the 

dark. 
Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can. 
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man ; 
As an actor, confess'd without rival to shine. 
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line : 
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, 
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. 
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread, 
And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. 
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; 
'Twas only that when he was off he was acting. 
With no reason on earth to go out of his way, 
He turn'd and he varied full ten times a-day : 
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick 
If they were not his own by finessing and trick : ' 
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, 
For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them 

back. 

* 1 lie Rev. Dr. Dodd, who was executed for forgery. 

f Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the 
title of 'The School of Shakspeare.' He was a well-known writer, of 
prodigious versatility, and some talent. Dr. Jolinson observed of hiin, 
'He is one of the many who have made themselves public, without 
makinj? themselves known.* 

X James Macpherson, Esq. who from the mere force of his style, 
wrote down the first poet of all antiquity. 

§ Williajn Lauder, who, by interjolating certain passages from the 
Adaraus Exul of Grotiiis, with translations from Paradise Lost, en- 
deavoured to fix on Milton a charg-e of plasriarism from the modern 
Latin poets. Dr. Douglas detected and exposed this imposture, and 
extorted from the author a confession and apology. 

il Archibald Bower, a Scottish Jesuit, and author of a History of the 
Popes from St. Peter to Lambertiui. Dr. Douglas convicted Bower 
if gross imposture, and totally destroyed the credit of his history. 



RETALIATION. 5J 

Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came. 
And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame j 
Till his relish, grown callous almost to disease. 
Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please. 
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind. 
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. 
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys,* and Woodfallst so grave, 
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you 

gave ! 
How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you 

raised. 
While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-praised ! 
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies. 
To act as an angel and mix with the skies : 
Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill. 
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will ; 
Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with love, 
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. 
Here Plickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant 

creature. 
And slander itself must allow him good-nature ; 
He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper ; 
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. 
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser ] 
I answer. No, no, for he always was wiser. 
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat? 
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that. 
Pel haps he confided in men as they go. 
And so was too foolishly honest 1 Ah, no ! 
Then what was his failing 1 come tell it, and burn ye 
He was, could he help it ? a special attorney. 

Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, 
He has not left a wiser or better behind ; 
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand, 
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland : 
Still born to improve us in every part. 
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart. 

• Mr. Hugh Kelly, ori;'nally a staymaker, afterwards a aewepaper 
editor and dramatist, and latterly a barrister. 
t Mr, William Wocxlfall, printer of ttie Morning Chroniclt. 



52 RETALIATION. 

To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steer.ng, 
When they judged without skill, he was still hard of 

hearing' : 
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and 

stuff, 
He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

After the fourth clition of this Poem was printed, tlie publisher re 
ceived the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord,t fro'u a friend o/ 
the late Dr. Goldsmith. 

Here Whitefoord reclines, and, deny it who can. 
Though he merrily lived, he is now a grave man -J 
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun! 
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoiced in a pun ; 
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere ; 
A stranger to flattery, a stranger to fear ; 
Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will ; 
Whose daily hon mots half a column might fill : 
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free ; 
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he. 

"What pity, alas ! that so liberal a mind 
Should so long be to newspaper essays confined ! 
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar, ■ 
Yet content if ' the table he set in a roar :' 
Whose talents to fill any station were fit. 
Yet happy if Woodfall§ confess'd him a wit. 

Ye newspaper witlings, ye pert scribbling folks ! 
Who copied his squibs, and re-echo'd his jokes ; 
Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come. 
Still follow your master, and visit his tomb 
To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine, 
And copious libations bestow on his shrine ; 

* Sir Joshna Reynolds was so deaf as to be under the necessity ol 
usiiiar an ear-trumpet in company. 

t Mr. Caleb \\hitefoord, author of many humorous essays. 

J Mr. Whitefoord was so notorions a punster, thai! Dr. Goldsmith 
used to say it was impossible to keep him company, without being 
infected ivith the itch of punning-. 

§ Mr. H. S. Woodl'all, printer of the Public Advertiser. 



THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 53 

Then strew all around it (you can do no less) 
Cross Readings, Ship News, and Mistakes of the Press.* 
Merry VVhitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit 
That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit. 
This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse, 
* Thou best-humour'd man with the worst-humour'd 
Muse.' 



THE 

DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION; 



Secluded from domestic strife. 

Jack Book-worm led a college life ; 

A fellowship at twenty-five 

Made him the happiest man alive ; 

He drank his glass, and crack'd his joke. 

And freshmen wonder'd as he spoke. 

Such pleasures, unalloy'd with care. 
Could any accident impair 1 
Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix 
Our swain, arrived at thirty-six ? 

Oh, had the archer ne'er come down 
To ravage in a country town ! 
Or Flavia been content to stop 
At triumphs in a Fleet Street shop ! 
Oh, had her eyes forgot to blaze ! 
Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze ! 
Oh! — but let exclamation cease. 
Her presence banish'd all his peace ; 
■ So with decorum all things carried. 
Miss frown'd, and blush'd, and then was — married. 

Need we expose to vulgar sight 
The raptures of the bridal night 1 
Need we intrude on hallow'd ground. 
Or draw the curtains closed around? 

« Mr. Whitefoovd had frequently indulged the town with liumoroiu 
pieces under those atles in the public Adverliier 



64 THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 

Let it suffice that each had charms : 
He clasp'd a goddess in his arms; 
And though she felt his usage rough. 
Yet in a man 'twas well enough. 

The honey-moon like lightning flew. 
The second brought its transports too ; 
A third, a fourth, were not amiss, 
The fifth was friendship mix'd with bliss: 
But, when a twelvemonth pass'd away, 
Jack found his goddess made of clay ; 
Found half the charms that deck'd her face 
Arose from powder, shreds, or lace ; 
But still the worst remain'd behind,— 
That very face had robb'd her mind. 

Skill'd in no other arts was she. 
But dressing, patching, repartee ; 
And, just as humour rose or fell. 
By turns a slattern or a belle. 
'Tis true she dress'd with modern grace. 
Half naked, at a ball or race ; 
But when at home, at board or bed, 
Five greasy nightcaps wrapp'd her head. 
Could so much beauty condescend 
To be a dull, domestic friend ] 
Could any curtain-lectures bring 
To decency so fine a thing ! 
In short, by night, 'twas fits or fretting; 
By day, 'twas gadding or coquetting. 
Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy 
Of powder'd coxcombs at her levee ; 
The squire and captain took their stations. 
And twenty other near relations : 
Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke 
A sigh in suffocating smoke ; 
While all their hours were pass'd between 
Insulting repartee and spleen. 

Thus, as her faults each day were knownt. 
He thinks her features coarser grown ; 
He fancies every vice she shews. 
Or thins her lip, or points her nose : 



THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 

Whenever rage or envy rise. 

How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes ! 

He knows not how, but so it is. 

Her face is grown a knowing phiz ; 

And, though her fops are wondrous civil. 

He thinks her ugly as the devil. 

Now, to perplex the ravell'd noose, 
As each a different way pursues. 
While sullen or loquacious strife 
Promised to hold them on for life. 
That dire disease, whose ruthless power 
Withers the beauty's transient flower,— 
Lo ! the small-pox, with horrid glare, 
Levell'd its terrors at the fair ; 
And, rifling every youthful grace, 
Left but the remnant of a face. 

The glass, grown hateful to her sight. 
Reflected now a perfect fright : 
Each former art she vainly tries 
To bring back lustre to her eyes ; 
In vain she tries her paste and creams 
To smooth her skin, or hide its seams; 
Her country beaux and city cousins. 
Lovers no more, flew off by dozens ; 
The squire himself was seen to yield. 
And e'en the captain quit the field. 

Poor madam, now condemn'd to hack 
The rest of life with anxious Jack, 
Perceiving others fairly flown. 
Attempted pleasing him alone. 
Jack soon was dazzled to behold 
Her present face surpass the old : 
With modesty her cheeks are dyed. 
Humility displaces pride ; 
For tawdry finery is seen 
A person ever neatly clean ; 
No more presuming on her sway. 
She learns good-nature every day : 
Serenely gay, and strict in duty. 
Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty. 



55 



b6 



THE GIFT* 

TO IRIS, IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDaN. 

Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake. 
Dear mercenary beauty, 
What annual oifering shall I make 
^ Expressive of my duty 1 

My heart, a victim to thine eyes. 

Should I at once deliver. 
Say, would the angry fair one prize 

The gift, who slights the giver ] 
A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy. 

My rivals give — and let 'em ; 
If gems, or gold, impart a joy, 

I'll give them — when I get 'em. 

I'll give — but not the full-blown rose. 

Or rose-bud more in fashion ; 
Such short-lived offerings but disclose 

A transitory passion — 

I'll give thee something yet unpaid, 

N'ot less sincere tlian civil, — 
I'll give thee — ah ! too charming maid f— 

I'll give thee — to the Devil I 



AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOO 

Good people all, of every sort. 

Give ear unto my song. 
And if you find it wondrous short. 

It cannot hold you long. 
In Islington there was a man. 

Of whom the world might say, 
That still a godly race he ran. 

Whene'er he went to pray. 

•Imitated from Greco'irt, a wiUy French poet. 



fF- 



THE LOGICIANS REFUTED, 67 

A kind and gentle heart he had. 

To comfort friends and foes : 
The naked every day he clad. 

When he put on his clothes. 

And in that town a dog was found. 

As many dogs there be, 
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound. 

And curs of low degree. 

This dog and man at first were friends ; 

But when a pique began. 
The dog, to gain his private ends, 

Went mad, and bit the man. 

Around from all the neighbouring street3 

The wond'ring neighbours ran, 
And swore the dog had lost his wits. 

To bite so good a man. 

The wound it seeni'd both sore and sad 

To every Christian eye; 
And while they swore the dog was mad. 

They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light, 
That shew'd the rogues they lied ; 

The man recover'd of the bite — 
The dog it was that died. 

THE LOGICIANS REFUTED.* 

IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT. 

Logicians have but ill defined 
As rational the human mind : 
Reason, they say, belongs to man. 
But let them prove it if they can. 
Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius, 
By ratiocinations specious, 

• Tliis happy imitation was adopted by liis Dublin publislier, as a 
genuine potin of Swift, and as sueli it lias been reprinted in almost 
every edition of tile Dean's works. Even Sir Vlalier Scott lias interlad 
it without iny reniaili in liis edition of Swift's Worlis. 

D 2 



S8 THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. 

Have strove to prove with great precision. 
With definition and division, 
Homo est ratione predtum ; 
But for my sou! 1 cannot c-redit 'em ; 
And must in spite of them maintain. 
That man and all his ways are vain ; 
And that this boasted lord of nature 
Is both a weak and erring- creature ; 
Tha-t instinct is a surer guide 
Than reason, boasting mortals' pride ; 
And that brute beasts are far before 'em— 
Deus est anima hrutoruni. 
Who ever knew an iionest brute 
At law his neighbour prosecute. 
Bring action for assault and battery f 
s Or friend beguile v;ith lies and flattery % 
O'er plains they ramble unconfined. 
No politics disturb their mind ; 
They eat their meals, and take their sport. 
Nor know who's in or out at court : 
They never to the Wee go 
To treat as dearest friend a foe ; 
They never importune his grace. 
Nor ever cringe to men in place ; 
Nor undertake a dirty job. 
Nor draw the quill to write for Bob,*. 
Fraught with invective they ne'er go 
To folks at Paternoster Row : 
No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters, 
No pickpockets, or poetasters, 
Are known to honest quadrupeds; 
No single brute his fellows leads. 
Brutes never meet in bloody, fray. 
Nor cut each other's throats for pay. 
Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape 
Comes nearest us in human shape • 
Like man, he imitates each fashion. 
And malice is his ruling passion : 

• Sir Robert Walpolc. 



A NEW SIMILE. 69 

But both in malice and grimaces, 
A courtier any ape surpasses. 
Behold him humbly cringing wait 
Upon the minister of state ; 
View him soon after to inferiors 
Aping the conduct of superiors : 
He promises with equal air, 
And to perform takes equal care. 
He in his turn finds imitators ; 
At court the porters, lacqueys, waiters, 
Their masters' manners still contract, 
And footmen, lords and dukes can act. 
Thus at the court, both great and small 
Behave alike, for all ape all. 



A NEW SIMILE. 

IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT. 

Long had I sought in vain to find 
A likeness for the scribbling kind — 
The modern scribbling kind, who write 
In wit, and sense, and nature's spite — 
Till reading — I forget what day on — 
A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon, 
I think I met with something there 
To suit my purpose to a hair. 
But let us not proceed too furious, — 
First please to turn to god Mercurius; 
You'll find him pictured at full length, 
In book the second, page the tenth 
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay, 
And now proceed we to our simile. 

Imprimis, pray observe his hat. 
Wings upon either side — mark that. 
Well ! what is it from thence we gather 1 
Why, these denote a brain of feather. 
A brain of feather ! very right. 
With wit that's flighty, learning light ; 



so A NEW SIMILE. 

Such as to modern bard's decreed : 
A just comparison — proceed. 

In the next place, his feet peruse, 
Wings grow again from both his shoes } 
Design 'd, no doubt, their part to bear. 
And waft his godship through the air : 
And here my simile unites ; 
For in a modern poet's flights, 
I'm sure it may be justly said. 
His feet are useful as his head. 

Lastly, vouchsafe t' observe his hand, 
Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand. 
By classic authors term'd caduceus, 
And highly famed for several uses : 
To wit, — most wondrously endued, 
No poppy water half so good ; 
For let folks only get a touch, 
Its soporific virtue's such, 
Though ne'er so much awake before. 
That quickly they begin to snore ; 
Add, too, what certain writers tell. 
With this he drives men's souls to hell. 

Now, to apply, begin we then : — 
His wand's a modern author's penj 
The serpents round about it twin'd 
Denote him of the reptile kind, 
Denote the rage with which he writeSj 
His frothy slaver, venom'd bites ; 
An equal semblance still to keep, 
Alike, too, both conduce to sleep ; 
This difference only, as the god 
Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod. 
With his goose- quill the scribbling elf. 
Instead of others, damns himself. 

And here my simile almost tript. 
Yet grant a word by way of postscript. 
Moreover, Merc'ry had a failing ; 
Well ! what of that 1 out with it — stealing ) 
In which all modern bards agree. 
Being each as great a thief as he. 



DESCRIPTION OF A BED-CHAMBER. 61 

But e'en this deity's existence 
Shal] lend my simile assistance : 
Our modem bards ! why, what a pox, 
Are they but senseless stones and blocks ? 

DESCRIPTION 



AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER. 

Where the Red Lion, staring o'er the way, 

Invites each passing stranger that can pay ; 

Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black champagne. 

Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane : 

There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug. 

The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug ; 

A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray. 

That dimly shew'd the state in which he lay ; 

The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread ; 

The humid wall with paltry pictures spread; 

The royal game of goose was there in view. 

And the twelve rules the Royal Martyr drew; 

The Seasons^ framed with listing, found a place, 

And brave Prince WilHam shew'd his lamp-black face. 

The morn was cold ; he views with keen desire 

The rusty grate unconscious of a lire : 

With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored. 

And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney-board , 

A nightcap deck'd his brows instead of bay, 

A cap by night — a stocking all the day !* 

A PROLOGUE, 

WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS, A ROMAM 

KNIGHT, WHOM C^SAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE. 

[Preserved by Macrobius.] 

What ! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage, 
And save from infamy my sinking age ! 

• The author ha* fiven, with a very slin-ht alti-ration, a Fimilar dp- 
iCription of Uie alehouse, in the Deserted Village. 
• 2E 



62 STANZAS. 

Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a year. 
What in the name of dotage drives me here ? 
A time there was, when glory was my guide. 
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside ; 
Unawed by power, and unappall'd by fear. 
With honest thrift I held my honour dear : 
But this vile hour disperses all my store, 
And all my hoard of honour is no more ; 
For, ah ! too partial to my life's decline, 
Csesar persuades, submission must be mine; 
Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys. 
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please. 
Here then at once 1 welcome every shame. 
And cancel, at threescore, a life of fame : 
No more my titles shall my children tell. 
The old buffoon will fit my name as well : 
This day beyond its term my fate extends, 
For life is ended when our honour ends. 



AN ELEGY ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, 
MRS. MARY BLAIZE. 

Good people all, with one accord. 

Lament for Madam Blaize, 
Who never wanted a good word — 

From those who spoke her praise. 
The needy seldom pass'd her door. 

And always found her kind ; 
She freely lent to all the poor — 

Who left a pledge behind. 

She strove the neighbourhood to please 
With manners wondrous winning ; 

And never follow'd wicked ways — 
Unless when she was sinning. 

At church, in silks and satins new, 

With hoop of monstrous size. 
She never slumber'd in her pew — 

But when she shut her eyes. 



STANZAS. 63 

Her love was sought, I do aver 

By twenty beaux and more ; 
The king himself has foUow'd her— 

When she has walk'd before. 

But now, her wealth and finery fled, 

Her hangers-on cut short all ; 
The doctors found, when she was dead— 

Her last disorder mortal. 

Let us lament in sorrow sore. 
For Kent Street well may say. 

That had she lived a twelvemonth more- 
She had not died to-day. 

ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH 

STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING. 

Sure 'twas by Providence design'd, 

Rather in pity than in hate, 
That he should be, like Cupid, blind. 

To save him from Narcissus' fate. 

THE CLOWN'S REPLY. 

John Trott was desired by two witty peers 
To tell them the reason why asses had ears ; 
' An't please you,' quoth John, ' I'm not given to 

letters. 
Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters 
Howe'er, from this time, I shall ne'er see your graces— 
As I hope to be saved ! — without thinking on asses.' 

EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL. 

This tomb, inscribed to gentle Parnf.ll's name. 
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame. 
What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay. 
That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery waj ] 
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid ; 
And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid. 



64 Sr4NZAS. 

Needless to hiir i!ie tribute we bestow. 
The transitory hreatn of fame below : 
Move lasting rapture from his works shall rise. 
While converts thank, their poet in the skies. 



EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.* 

Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed. 
Who long was a bookseller's hack : 

He led such a damnable life in this world, 
I don't think he'll wish to come back. 



STANZAS ON THE TAKING OP QUEBEC 

Amidst the clamour of exulting joys, 

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart. 

Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice. 

And quells the raptures which from pleasure start, 

O Wolfe ! t to thee a streaming flood of wo 
Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear ; 

Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow, 
Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. 

Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled. 

And saw thee fall with joy -pronouncing eyes: 

Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead! 
Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise. 

STANZAS ON WOMAN. 

When lovely woman stoops to folly, 
And finds too late that men betray. 

What charm can sooth her melancholy 1 
What art can wash her guilt away 1 

* This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; bill 
having wasted his patrimony, lie iiilisted as a foot soldier. Growing 
tired of tliat employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a 
Dcribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's Ilenriade. 

t Goldsmith claimed relationship with this gallant soldier, whose 
charactur he greatly admired. 



6S 



The only art her guilt to cover. 
To hide her shame from every eye. 

To give repentance to her lover. 
And wring his bosom, is — to die. 



A SONNET.* 

Weeping, murmuring, complaining, 

Lost to every gay delight, 
Myra, too sincere for feigning. 

Fears th' approaching bridal night. 

Yet vphy impair thy bright perfection, 
Or dim thy beauty with a tearl 

Had Myrk follow'd my direction, 
She long had wanted cause of fear. 



SONG. 
From the Oratorio of the Captivity. 

The wretch condemn'd with life to party 

Still, still on hope relies ; 
And every pang that rends the heart 

Bids expectation rise. 

Hope, like the glimmering taper's light. 

Adorns and cheers the way ; 
And still, as darker grows the night. 

Emits a brighter ray. 

SONG; 

From the Oratorio of the Captivity. 

O MEMORY ! thou fond deceiver. 

Still importunate and vain. 
To former joys recurring ever, 

And turning all the past to pain. 

* This eonnet id imitated from a Frencli madri^l of St. VvtitT- 



66 iniOLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE. 

Thou, like the world, the oppress'd oppressing. 
Thy smiles increase the wretch's wo ; 

And he who wants each other blessing. 
In thee must ever find a fee. 



SONG. 

Intended to have been sung in the comedy of She Sloops to Conquer, 
but omitted, because Mrs. Bulkley, wlio acted tlie part of Miss Hard 
castle, could not sing. 

Ah me ! when shall I marry me 1 

Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me 

He, fond youth, that could carry me, 
Offers to love, but means to deceive me. 

But I will rally, and combat the miner : 

Not a look, nor a smile, shall my passion discover. 

She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, 
Slakes but a penitent, and loses a lover. 



PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE, A TRAGEDY ; 

WR.TTEN BY JOSEPH CRADOCK, ESQ., ACTED AT THB 
THEATRE ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN, 1772. 

SPOKEN BY MR. QUICK. 

In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore 
The distant climates and the savage shore ; 
When wise astronomers to India steer, 
And quit for Venus many a brighter here ; 
While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling. 
Forsake the fair, and patiently — go simpling : 
Our bard into the general spirit enters. 
And fits his little frigate for adventures. 
With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden. 
He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading; 
Yet ere he lands he 's ordered me before, 
To make an observation on the shore. 



EPILOGUE TO THE SISTERS 67 

Where are we driven 1 our reckoning sure is lost ! 
This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast. 
Lord, what a sultry climate am I under ! 
Yon ill- foreboding cloud seems big with thunder : 

[Upper Gallery. 
There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 

'em — ' [Pit. 

Here trees of stately size — and billing turtles in 'em. 

[Balconies. 
Here ill-condition'd oranges abound — [Stage. 

And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground : 

[Tasting them. 
The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear : 
I heard a hissing — there are serpents here ! 
Oh, there the people are — best keep my distance : 
Our Captain, gentle natives, craves assistance ; 
Our ship 's well stored — in yonder creek we've laid 

her. 
His Honour is no mercenary trader. 
This is his first adventure : lend him aid. 
And we may chance to drive a thriving trade. 
His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far. 
Equally fit for gallantry and war. 
What! no reply to promises so ample? 
I *d best step back — and order up a sample. 

EPILOGUE 

TO THE COMEDY OP THE SISTERS.* 

What! five long acts — and all to make us wiser! 
Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser. 
Had she consulted me, she should have made 
Her moral play a speaking masquerade : 
Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage. 
Have emptied all the green-room on the stage. 
My life on't this had kept her play from sinking. 
Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain of thinking. 

* By Mrs. Cliarlotte Lennox, author of the Female Quixote, ShaJt- 
speare Illustrated, Sic. It wa« performed one night only at CovenJ 
Garden, in 17S9. Tliis lady was praised by Dr. Johnson, as the clc 
^£.rest fenj;ile writer of her a^e. 



68 EPILOGUE TO THE SISTERS. 

Weil, since she thus has shewn her want of skill, 

What if I give a masquerade 1 — I will. 

But how'! ay, there's the rub! [^pausing'] I've got 

my cue : 
The world's a masquerade ! the masquers, you, you, 

you. [_To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery. 

Lud ! what a group the motley scene discloses ! 
False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses ! 
Statesmen with bridles on ; and, close beside 'em. 
Patriots in party-colour'd suits that ride 'em : 
There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more 
To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore ; 
These in their turn, with appetites as keen. 
Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen : 
Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon, 
Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman ; 
The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure. 
And tries to kill, ere she 's got power to cure. 
Thus 'tis with all: their chief and constant care 
Is to seem every thing — but what they are. 
Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on. 
Who seems t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion; 
Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round 

parade, 
Looking, as who should say. Damme ! whose afraid 1 

[^Mimicking. 
Strip but this vizor off, and, sure I am, 
You'll find his lionship a very lamb: 
Yon politician, famous in debate. 
Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state; 
Yet, when he deigns his real shape t' assume. 
He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom. 
Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight. 
And seems, to every gazer, all in white, 
If with a bribe his candour you attack. 
He bows, turns round, and whip — the man's in black! 
Yon critic, too — but whither do I run 1 
If I proceed, our bard will be undone ! 
Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too : 
Do you spare her, and I'll for oace spare you. 



EPILOGUE 



SPOKEN BY 



MRS. BULKLEY AND MISS CATLEY. 

Enter Mrs, Bulkley, who curtsies very low, ms begin 
ning to speak- Then enter Miss Catley, who stands 
full before her, and curtsies to the audience. 

Mrs. Bulkley. Hold, Ma'am, your pardon. What's 

your business here 1 
Miss Catley. The Epilogue. 
Mrs. B. The Epilogue 1 
Miss C. Yes, the Epilogue, my dear. 
Mrs. B. Sure you mistake, Ma'am. The Epilogue! 

I bring it. 
Miss C. Excuse me, Ma'am. The author bid me 

sing it. 

Recitative. 

Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring, 
Suspend your conversation while I sing. 

Mrs. B. Why, sure the girl's beside herself ! aa 
Epilogue of singing 1 
A hopeful end, indeed, to such a blest beginning. 
Besides, a singer in a comic set — 
Excuse me. Ma'am, 1 know the etiquette. 
■ Miss C. What if we leave it to the house ] 

Mrs. B. The house ! — Agreed. 

Miss C. Agreed. 

Mrs. B. And she whose party's largest shall 
proceed. 
And first, I hope you'll readily agree 
I've all the critics and the wits for me. 
They, I am sure, will answer my commands : 
Ye candid judging few, hold up your hands. 
What ! no return 1 I find too late, I fear. 
That modern judges seldom enter here. 



70 EPILOCUE. 

Miss C. I'm for a diffeTent set : — Old men, whose 
trade is 
Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies. 



Recitative. 
Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling. 
Still thus address the fair with voice beguiling : 

Air. — Cotillon. 

Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever 
StrephoQ caught thy ravish'd eye. 
Pity take on your swain so clever. 
Who without your aid must die. 

Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu! 

Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho, ho! 

Da Capo. 

Mrs. B, Let all the old pay homage to your merit j 
Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit. 
Ye travell'd tribe, ye macaroni train, 
Of French friseurs and nosegays justly vain. 
Who take a trip to Paris once a-year. 
To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here, — 
Lend me your hands : O fatal news to tell, 
Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle. 

Miss C. Ay, take your travellers — travellers indeed! 
Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the Tweed. 
Where are the chiels? Ah, ah, I well discern 
The smiling looks of each bewitching bairn. 

Air. — A bonnie young Lad is my Jockey. 

I'll sing to amuse you by night and by day, 

And be unco merry when you are but gay ; 

When you with your bagpipes are ready to play. 

My voice shall be ready to carol away 

With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey, 
W^ith Sawnie, and Jarvie, and Jockey. 

Mrs. B. Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit. 
Make but of all your fortune one va toute: 



JiPli.OGi;E. 71 

Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few, 

' 1 hold the odds — Done, done, with you, with you!' 

Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace, 

' My Lord, your Lordship miaconceives the case :' 

Doctors, who answer every misfortuner, 

' I wish I'd been call'd in a little sooner :' 

Assist ray cause with hands and voices hearty, 

Come, end the contest here, and aid my party. 

Air. — BalUnamony. 
Misi C. Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack. 
Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack ; 
For — sure I don't wrong you — you seldom are slack. 
When the ladies are calling, to blush and hang back, 
For you are always polite and attentive. 
Still to amuse us inventive. 
And death is your only preventive : 
Your hands and your voices for me. 

Mrs. B. Well, Madam, what if, after all this spar- 
ring, 
We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring? 

Miss C. And that our friendship may remain un- 
broken, 
W^hat if we leave the Epilogue unspoken 1 
Mrs. B. Agreed. 
Miss C. Agreed. 

Mrs. B. And now with late repentance, 
Un-epilogued the Poet waits his sentence. 
Condemn the stubborn fool, who can't submit 
To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit. 

Exeunt. 

AN EPILOGUE 

INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY. 

There is a place — so Ariosto sings — 

A treasury for lost and missing things , 

Lost human wits have places there assign'd them. 

And they who lose their senses, there may find them. 



u 



72 EPILOGUE. 

But where's this place, this storehouse of the age 
The Moon, says he ; but I affirm, the Stage — 
At least, in many things, I think I see 
His lunar and our mimic world agr^e : 
Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone. 
We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down ; 
Both prone to change, no settled limits fix. 
And sure the folks of both are lunatics. 
But in this parallel my best pretence is. 
That mortals visit both to find their senses : 
To this strange spot. Rakes, Macaronies, Cits, 
Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits. 
The gay coquette, who ogles all the day, 
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away. 
Hither th' affected city dame advancing. 
Who sighs for Operas, and doats on dancing. 
Taught by our art, her ridicule to pause on. 
Quits the Ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson. 
The Gamester, too, whose wit's all high or low. 
Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw. 
Comes here to saunter, having made his bets, 
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts. 
The Mohawk, too, with angry phrases stored — 
A.S, ' Damme, Sir !' and ' Sir, I wear a sword !'— 
Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating. 
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating. 
Here come the sons of scandal and of news, - 
But find no sense — for they had none to lose. 
Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser, 
Our Author's the least likely to grow wiser ; 
Has he not seen how you your favour place 
On sentimental queens and lords in lace 1 
Without a star, a coronet, or garter, 
How can the piece expect or hope for quarter 1 
No high-life scenes, no sentiment : the creature 
Still stoops among the low to copy Nature. 
Yes, he's far gone : and yet some p'ty fix. 
The English laws forbid to punish J unatics. 



EPILOGUE, 

8P0KEN 01 MR. LEE LEWES, IN THE CHARACTER OP 
HARLEQUIN AT HIS BENEFIT. 

Hold ! Prompter, bold ! a word before your nonsense 
I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience. 
My pride forbids it ever should be said 
My heels eclipsed the honours of my head ; 
That I found humour in a piebald vest. 
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest. 

*' [Takes off hu maSK 

Whence, and what art thou,, visionary birth 1 
Nature disowns, and reason scorns, thy mirth : 
In thy black aspect every passion sleeps, 
The joy that dimples, and the wo that weeps. 
How hast thou fil^d the scene with all thy brood 
Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursued 1 . 
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses. 
Whose only plot it 19 to break our noses ;_ 
Whilst from below the txap-door demons rise, 
And from above the dangling deities : 
And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crewl 
May rosin'd lightning blast me if I do ! 
No — I will act — I '11 vindicate the stage : 
Shakspeare himself shall feel my tragic rage. 
Off! off! vile trappings ! a new passion reigns ! 
The madd'ning monarch revels in my vems. 
Oh ! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme, — 
' Give me another horse ! bind up my wounds !— soft— 

'twas but a dream.' 
Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating. 
If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating. 
'Twas thus that ^sop's stag, a creature blameless. 
Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless 
Once on the margin of a fountain stood, 
And cavill'd at his image in the flood : 
E 



74 EPILOGUE. 

' The deuce confound/ he cries, ' these drumstick 

shanks, 
They never have my gratitude nor thanks ; 
They're perfectly disgraceful ! rtrike me dead ! 
But for a head, yes, yes, I have a head : 
How piercing is that eye ! how sleek that brow ! 
JMy horns ! — I'm told horns are the fashion now,* 

Whilst thus he spoke, astonish 'd, to his view. 
Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmea 

drew ; 
' Hoicks ! hark forward !' came thund'ring from 

behind • 
He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wiad ; 
He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways ; 
fie starts, he pants, he takes the circling male : 
At length, his silly head, so prized before. 
Is taught liis former folly to deplore ; 
Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free, 
And at one bound hs saves himself — like me. 

^Taking a jump through the stage door. 



75 



THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS.* 

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER I.ATE ROYAL HIGHNESS TBS 

PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES. 

BPOKEN AND SUNG IN THE GREAT KOOM IN SOHO-SQUABE, 

Thursday, the 20th of February, 1772. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The following may more properly be termed a com- 
pilation than a poem. It was prepared for the composer 
in little more than two days : and may therefore ratlier 
be considered as an industrious effort of gratitude than 
of genius. . 

In justice to the composer, it may likewise be right 
to inform the public, that the music was adapted in a 
period of time equally short. 

Speakers— i»f»-. Lee and Mrs. Bellamy. 
Singers— ilir. Champnes, Mr. Dine, and Miss Jameson. 

THE MUSIC PREPARED AND ADAPTED BY SIGNIOR TENTO. 



THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 

OVERTURE— A SOLEMN DIRGE. 
AIR — TRIO. 

Arise, ye sons of worth, arise. 

And waken every note of wo '. 
"When truth and virtue reach the skies 

'lis ours to weep the want below. 

• This poem was first printed in Chalmers' edition of d'e -EnfjWl 
Poets, from a copy given by Goldsmitli to his friend, Joseph Craao>K, 
Esq., author of the tragedy of Zoleide. 



7B IHRBNODIA AUGUSTALIS. 

CHORUS. 

When troth and virtue, &c. 

MAN SPEAKER. 

The praise attending pomp and power. 

The incense given to kings, 
Are but the trappings of an hour. 

Mere transitory things. 
The base bestow them ; but the good agree 
To spurn the venal gifts as flattery. 
But when to pomp and power are join'd 
An equal dignity of the mind ; 

When titles are the smallest claim ; 
When wealth, and rank, and noble blood. 
But aid the power of doing good : 

Then all their trophies last — and flattery turns to 
fame. 
Blest spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom. 
Shall spread and flourish from the tomb. 

How hast thou left mankind for Heaven ! 
Even now reproach and faction mourn, 
And, wondering how their rage was born. 

Request to be forgiven ! 
Alas ! they never had thy hate ; 

Unmoved, in conscious rectitude. 

Thy towering mind self-centred stood, 
Nor wanted man's opinion to be great. 

In vain, to charm the ravish'd sight, 
A thousand gifts would fortune send ; 

In vain, to drive thee from the right, 
A thousand sorrows urged thy end : 
Like some well-fashion'd arch thy patience stood. 
And purchased strength from its increasing load. 
Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free, 
AfHiction still is virtue's opportunity ! 
Virtue, on herself relying. 

Every passion hush'd to rest. 
Loses every pain of dying 

In the hopes of being blest. 



THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. ST 

Every added pang she suffers 

Some increasing good bestows, 
And every shock that malice offers 

Only rocks her to repose. 

SONG. BY A MAN — ^AFFETUOSO. 

Virtue, on herself relying, &c. 

to 
Only rocks her to repose. 

WOMAN SPEAKER. 

Yet ah ! what terrors frown'd upon her fate. 

Death, with its formidable bandy 
Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care. 

Determined took their stand. 
Nor did the cruel ravagers design 

To finish all their efforts at a blow : 

But, mischievously slow. 
They robb'd the relic and defaced the shriae. 

With unavailing grief. 

Despairing of relief. 
Her weeping children round 

Beheld each hour 

Death's growing pow'r. 
And trembled as he frown'd. 
As helpless friends who view from shore 
The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar. 

While winds and waves their wishes cross,— 
They stood, while hope and comfort fail. 
Not to assist, but to bewail 

The inevitable loss. 
Relentless tyrant, at thy call 
How do the good, the virtuous fall ! 
Truth, beaut'v, worth, and all that most engage. 
But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage. 

SONG. EV A MAN — BASSO, STOCCATO, SPIRITCOSO. 

When vice my dart and scythe supply. 
How great a Ring of Terrors I ! 
If folly, fraud, your hearts engage, 
Tremble, ve mortals, at my rage ! / 

2F 



78 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 

Fall, round me fall, ye little things. 
Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings, 
If virtue fail her counsel sage. 
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage ! 

MAN SPEAKER. 

Yet et that wisdom, urged by her example. 
Teach us to estimate what all must suffer : 
Let us prize death as the best gift of nature. 
As a safe inn where weary travellers. 
When they have journey'd through a world of cares. 
May put off life, and be at rest for ever. 
Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables. 
May oft distract us with their sad solemnity : 
The preparation is the executioner. 
Death, when unmask'd, shews me a friendly face. 
And is a terror only at a distance : 
For as the line of kfe conducts me on 
To Death's great court, the prospect seems more fair; 
Tis JS'ature's kind retreat, that's always open 
To take us in when we have drain 'd the cup 
Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness. 
In that secure, serene retreat. 
Where all the humble, all the great. 

Promiscuously recline ; 
Where, wildly huddled to the eye. 
The beggar's pouch and prince's purple he : 

May every bliss be thine ! 
And, ah ! blest spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight, 
'i'hrough rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light, 
iVIay cherubs welcome their expected guest ! 
May saints with songs receive thee to their rest ! 
May peace, that claim'd, while here, thy warmest love, 
May blissful, endless peace be thine above ! 

BONO. BY A WOMAN — AMOROSO. 

Lovely, lasting Peace, below, 
Comforter of every wo. 
Heavenly born, and bred on high, 
lo crcwn the favourites of the sky ! 



THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. jy 

Lovely, lasting Peace, appear ! 
This world itself, if thou art here. 
Is once again with Eden blest. 
And man contains it in his breast. 

WOMAN SPEAKER. 

Our vows are heard ! Long, long to mortal eyes. 

Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies : 

Celestial-like her bounty fell. 

Where modest Want and patient Sorrow dwell ; 

Want pass'd for Merit at her door. 

Unseen the modest were supplied, 

Her constant pity fed the poor, — ■ 

Then only poor, indeed, the day she died. 

And, oh ! for this, while sculpture decks thy 

And art exhausts profusion round. 
The tribute of a tear be mine, 

A simple song, a sigh profound. 
There Faith shall come — a pilgrim gray. 
To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay ! 
And calm Religion shall repair 
To dwell a weeping hermit there. 
Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship, shall agree 
To blend their virtues while they think of thee 

AIR — CHORUS FOMFOSO. 

Let us — let all the world agree. 
To profit by resembling thee. 

PART II. 

OVERTURE — PASTORALE. 
MAN SPEAKER. 

Past by that shore where Thames' translucent stream 

Reflects new glories on his breast, 
Where, splendid as the youthful poet's dream. 

He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest ; 
Where sculptured elegance and native grace 
Unite to stamp the beauties of the place ; 



80 THRENODIA AIJGUSTALI3. 

While, sweetly blending, still are seen 
The wavy lawn, the sloping green ; 

While novelty, with cautious cunning, 

Through every maze of fancy running. 
From Chma borrows aid to deck the scene : 
There, sorrowing by the river's glassy bed. 

Forlorn, a rural band complain'd. 
All whom Augusta's bounty fed. 

All vvhom her clemency sustain'd ; 
The good old sire, unconscious of decay. 
The modest matron, clad in home-spun gray. 
The military boy, tlie orphan'd maid. 
The shatter'd veteran now first dismay 'd, — 
These sadly join beside the murmurmg deep. 

And, as they view the towers of Kew, 
Call on their mistress — now no more — and weep. 

CHORUS. — AFFETOOSO, LAROO. 

Ye siiady walks, ye waving greens. 

Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes. 

Let all your echoes now deplore. 

That she who form'd your beauties is no more* 

MAN SPEAKER 

First of the train the patient rustic came, 

Whose callous hand had form'd the scene. 
Bending at once with sorrow and with age, ' 

With many a tear, and many a sigh between : 
' And where,' he cried, ' shall now my babes have 
bread, 

Or how shall age support its feeble fire t 
No lord will fake me now, my vigour fled. 

Nor can my strength perform what they require: 
Each grudging master keeps the labourer bare, 
A sleek and idle race is all their care. 
My noble mistress thought not so : 

Her bounty, like the morning dew. 
Unseen, though constant, used to flow. 

And as my strength decay'd, her bounty grew.' 



THRKNODIA AVG ISTALIS. 

WOMAN SPEAKEH. 

In decent dress, and coarsely clean, 

The pious matron next was seen, 

Clasp'd in her hand a godly book was borne. 

By use and daily meditation worn ; 

That decent dress, this holy guide, 

Auo-usta's cares had well supplied. 

• And, ah 1' she cries, all wobegone, 

• What now remains for me ? 
Oh 1 where shall weeping want repair 

To ask for charity 1 
Too late in life for me to ask, 

And shame prevents the deed, 
And tardy, tardy are the times 

To succour should I need. 
But all my wants, before I spoke, 

Were to my mistress known ; 
She still relieved, nor sought my praise. 

Contented with her own. 
But every day her name I'll bless, 

My morning prayer, my evening song, 
I'll praise her while my life shall last, 

A life that cannot last me long.' 

SONG. — BY A WOMAN. 

Each day, each hour, her name I'll bless. 
My morning and my evening song. 

And when in death my vows shall cease, 
My children shall the note prolong. 

MAN SPEAKER. 

The hardy veteran after struck the sight, 
Scarr'd, mangled, maim'd in every part, 
Lopp'd of his limbs in many a gallant fight. 
In nought entire — except his heart : 
Mute for a while, and sullenly distrest. 
At last th' impetuous sorrow fired his breast : 
E2 



»1 



<-=nr: 



8Si . THRENODI.V AUGUSTALIS. 

' Wild is the v/hirlwind rolling 

O'er Afric's sandy plain, 
And wide the tempest howling 

Along the billow'd main : 
But every danger felt before. 
The raging deep, the whirlwind's roar. 
Less dreadful struck me with dismay 
Than what I feel this fatal day. 
Oh, let me fly a land that spurns the brave, 
Oswego's dreary shores shall be my grave ; 
I'll seek that less inhospitable coast. 
And lay my body where my limbs were lost. 

SONG. — BY A MAN. — BASSO SPIBITUOSO. 

Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield. 
Shall crowd from Cressy's laurell'd field. 

To do thy memory right : 
For thine and Britain's wrongs they feel» 
Again they snatch the gleamy steel. 

And wish th' avenging fight. 

WOMAN SPEAKER. 

In innocence and youth complaining, * 

Next appear'd a lovely maid ; 
Affliction, o'er each featuie reigningj 

Kindly came in beauty's aid : 
Every grace that grief dispenses, 

Every glance that warms the sou , 
la sweet succession charms the senses. 

While Pity harmonized the whole. 
' The garland of beauty,' 'tis thus she would say, 

' No more shall ray crook or my temples adorn , 
I'll not wear a ga-rland — Augusta's away — 

I'll not wear a garland until she return. 
But, alas ! that return I never shall see : 

The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim. 
There promised a lover to come — but, ah me ! 

'Twas death — 'twas the death of my mistress that 
came. 



THRENODIA AUGUSTALlS. 88 

But ever, for ever, her image shall last, 

I'll strip all the Spring of its earliest bloom ; 
On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be cast. 

And the new-blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb.' 

SONG BY A WOMAN. — PASTORALE. 

With garlands of beauty the Queen of the May 

No more will her crook or her temples adorn j 
For who'd wear a garland when she is away. 

When she is removed, and shall never return ? 
On the grave of Augusta these garlands be placed, 

We'll rifle the Spring of its earliest bloom. 
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast. 

And the new-blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb. 

CHORUS. — ALTRO MODO. 

On the grave of Augusta this garland be placed. 
We'll rifle the Spring of its earliest bloom, 

And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, 
And the tears of her country shall watei her tomb. 



84 



THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO.* 



THE PERSONS. 



First Jewish Prophet. 
Second Jewish Prophet. 
Israelitish Woman. 



First Chaldean Priest. 
Second Clialdean Priest. 
Chaldean Woman. 



Chorus of Youths and Virgins. 
Scene — The Banks of the River Euphrates near Babylon 



ACT THE FIRST. 



FIRST PROPHET. 



Ye captive tribes that hourly work and weep 
Where flows Euphrates murmuring to the deep, 
Suspend your woes a while, the task suspend. 
And turn to God, your father and your friend ! 
Insulted, cbain'd, and all the world our foe, 
Our God alone is all we boast below. 

Air. 

f;rst prophet. 

Our God is all we boast below 

To him we turn our eyes ; 
And every added weight of wo 

Shall make our homage rise. 

SECOND PROPHET. 

And though no temple richly dress'd. 

Nor sacrifice is here, 
We'll make his temple in our breast. 

And offer up a tear. 

[The first statiza repeated by the Chorus. 

* This was first printed from the original, in Dr. Gnldsniit'i's own 
Iiand-writiner, in tlie 8vo. edition of his Miscelianeoiu H'orks, tm!~ 
lished ill IS'JO. . 



THE CAPTIVITY : AN ORATORIO. 83 

ISRAELITISH WOMAN. 

That strain once more ! it bids remembrance rise, 

And brings my long-lost country to mine eyes : 

Ye fields of Sharon, dress'd in flowery pride, 

Ye plains where Kedron rolls its glassy tide. 

Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown'd. 

Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around, — 

How sweet those groves ! that plain how wondrous 

fair ! 
How doubly sweet when Heaven was with us there I 

Air, 

O Memory ! thou fond deceiver, 

Still importunate and vain ; 
To former joys recurring ever, 

And turning all the past to pain : 

Hence, intruder most distressing ! 

Seek the happy and the free : 
The wretch who wants each other blessing. 

Ever wants a friend in thee. 

SECOND PROPHET. 

Yet why complain i. What though by bonds confined, 

Should bonds repress the vigour of the mind 2 

Have we not cause for triumph, when we see 

Ourselves alone from idol-worship free 1 

Are not, this very morn, those feasts begun 

Where prostrate error hails the rising sun'! 

Do not our tyrant lords this day ordain 

For superstitious rites and mirth profane 1 

And should we mourn 1 Should coward virtue fly. 

When vaunting folly lifts her head on high 1 

No ! rather let us triumph still the more. 

And as our fortune sinks, our spirits soar. 

Air. 

The triumphs that on vice attend 

Shall ever in confusion end ; • 



86 THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO. 

The good man suffers but to gain, ' 
And every virtue springs from paia : 
As aromatic plants bestow 
No spicy fragrance while they grow ; 
But crush'd, or trodden to the ground. 
Diffuse their balmy sweets around. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

But hush, my sons, our tyrant lords are near, 

The sounds of barbarous pleasure strike mine earj 

Triumphant music floats along the vale, 

Near, nearer still, it gathers on the gale : 

The growing sound their swift approach declares— 

Desist, my sons, nor mix the strain with theirs 

Enter Chaldean Priests attended. 
Air. 

FIRST PRIEST. 

Come on, my companions, the triumph display. 

Let rapture the minutes employ ; 
The sun calls us out on this festival day, 

And our monarch partakes in the joy. 

SECOND PRIEST. 

Like the sun, our great monarch all rapture supplies, 

Both similar blessings bestow : 
The sun with his splendour illumines the skies, 

And our monarch enlivens below. 

Air. 

CHALDEAN WOMAN. 

Haste, ye sprightly sons of pleasure. 
Love presents the fairest treasure. 
Leave all other joys for me. 

A CHALDEAN ATTENDANT. 

Or rather, love's delights despising, 
Haste to raptures ever rising 
♦ Wine shall bless the brave and free. 



THE CAPTIVITY : AN ORATORIO. 



87 



FIRST fRIEST. 



Wine and beauty thus inviting, 
Each to different joys exciting, 
Whither shall my choice incline? 



SECOND PRIEST. 



1 11 waste no longer thought in choosing. 
But, neither this nor that refusing, 
I'll make them both together mine. 

FIRST PRIEST. 

But whence, when joy should brighten o'er the land, 
This sullen gloom in Judah's captive band'} 
Ye sons of Judah, why the lute unstrung? 
Or why ihfise harps on yonder willows hung? 
Come, take the lyre, and pour the strain along. 
The day demands it : sing us Sion's song. 
Dismiss your griefs, and join our warbling choir. 
For who like you can wake the sleeping lyre ? 

Air, 

^»ery moment as it flows 
Some peculiar pleasure owes : 
Come, then, providently wise. 
Seize the debtor ere it flies. 

SECOND PRIEST. 

Think not to-morrovv can repay 
The debt of pleasure lost to-day : 
Alas ! to-morrow's richest store 
Can but pay its proper score. 



SECOND PROPHET. 



Chain'd as we are, the scorn of all mankind. 

To want, to toil, and every ill consign'd. 

Is this a time to bid us raise the strain. 

Or mix in rites that Heaven regards with pain ! 



88 THE CAPTIYITV: A.N ORATORIO. 

No, never ! may this hand forget each art 
That wakes to finest joys the human heart. 
Ere I forget the land that gave me birth. 
Or join to sounds profane its sacred mirth ! 

SECOND PRIEST. 

Rebellious slaves ! if soft persuasion fail. 
More formidable terrors shall prevail. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

Why, let them come, one good remains to cheer — 
We fear the Lord, and scorn all other fear. 

{Exeunt Chaldbaks. 

CHORUS OF ISRAELITES. 

Can chains or tortures bend the mind 
On God's supporting breast reclined ? 
Stand fast, and let our tyrants see 



That fortitude is victory. 



Exeunt. 



ACT THE SECOND. 

IsBAELiTEs and Chaldeans, as before- 

Air. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

O peace of mind, angelic guest, 
Thou soft companion of the breast. 

Dispense thy balmy store ! 
Wing all our thoughts to reach the si 
Till earth, receding from our eyes. 

Shall vanish as we soar! 



FIRST PRIEST. 



No more. Too long has justice been delay'd. 
The king's commands must fully be obey'd j 



THE CAPTIVITY : AM ORATORIO. S 

Compliance with his will your peace secures. 
Praise but our gods, and every good is yours- 
But if, rebellious to his high command. 
You spurn the favourt offer'd from his hand. 
Think, timely think, what terrors are behind. 
Reflect, nor tempt to rage the royal mind. 

Air. 

Fierce is the tempest howling 

Along the furrow'd main, 
And fierce the whirlwind rolling 

O'er Afric's sandy plain : 

But storms that fiy 

To rend the sky. 
Every ill presaging, 

Less dreadful shew 

To worlds below 
Than angry monarchs raging. 

ISRAELITISR WOMAN. 

Ah me ! what angry terrors round us grow ! 
How shrinks my soul to meet the threaten'd blow I 
Ye prophets, skill'd in Heaven's eternal truth. 
Forgive my sex's fears, forgive my youth ! 
Ah ! let us one, one little hour obey ; 
To-morrow's tears may wash the stain away. 

Air. 

Fatigued with life, yet loath to part, 

On hope the wretch relies; 
And every blow that sinks the heart 

Bids the deluder rise. 

Hope, like the taper's gleamy light, 

Adorns the wretch's way ; 
And still, as darker grows the night. 

Emits a brighter ray. 

SECOND PBIEST. 

Why this delay 1 At length for joy prepare: 
I read your looks, and see compliance there. 



90 THE CAPTIVITY : AN ORATORIO. 

Come on, and bid the warbling rapture rise. 
Our monarch's fame the noblest theme supplies. 
Begin, ye captive bands, and strike the lyre, 
The time, the theme, the place, and all conspire* 

Air. 

CHALDEAN WOMAN. 

See the ruddy morning smiling. 
Hear the grove to bliss beguiling ; 
Zephyrs through the woodland playing. 
Streams along the valley straying. 

FIRST PRIEST. 

While these a constant revel keep. 
Shall reason only teach to weep t 
Hence, intruder ! we'll pursue 
Nature, a better guide than you. 

SECOND PRIEST. 

But hold ! see, foremost of the captive choir. 
The master prophet grasps his full-toned lyre. 
Mark where he sits, with executing art, 
Feels for each tone, and speeds it to the heart . 
See, how prophetic rapture fills his form. 
Awful as clouds that nurse the growing storm! 
And now his voice, accordant to the string, 
Prepare's our monarch's victories to sing. 

ASr. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

From north, from south, from east, from west^ 

Conspiring nations come : 
Tremble, thou vice-polluted breast! 

Blasphemers, all be dumb. 

The tempest gathers all around. 

On Babylon it lies ; 
Down with her ! down, down to the ground 

She sinks, she groans, she dies. 



THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO. 91 



SECOND PROPHET. 



Down with her. Lord, to lick the dust. 

Before yon setting sun ; 
Serve her as she hath served the just ! 

*Tis fix'd — it shall be done. 



FIRST PRIEST. 



No more ! when slaves thus insolent presume. 

The king himself shall judge and fix their doom. 

Unthinking wretches ! have not you and all 

Beheld our power in Zedekiah's falH 

To yonder gloomy dungeon turn your eyes : 

See where dethroned your captive monarch lies. 

Deprived of sight, and rankling in his chain ; 

See where he mourns his friends and ciiildren slam. 

Yet know, ye slaves, that still remain behind 

More ponderous chains, and dungeons more confined 

CHORDS OF ALL. 

Arise, all potent ruler, rise. 

And vindicate thy people's cause, 

Till every tongue in every land 
Shall offer up unfeign'd applause. 

[Exeitnt. 



ACT THE THIRD. 

FIRST PRIEST. 



Yes, my companions. Heaven's decrees are pass'd, 

And our fix'd empire shall for ever last: 

In vain the madd'ning prophet threatens wo. 

In vain rebellion aims her secret blow ; 

Still shall our name and growing power be spread, 

And still o\ir iustice crush the traitor's head. 



THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO. 

Air. 

Coeval with man 
Our empire began, 
And never shall fall 
Till ruin shakes ail. 
When ruin shakes all. 
Then shall Babylon fall. 

SECOND PROPHET. 

'Tis thus the proud triumphant rear the head,- - 
A little while, and all their pov.'er is fled. 
But, ha ! what means yon sadly plaintive train. 
That onward slowly bends along the plain 1 
And now, behold, to yonder bank they bear 
A pallid corse, and rest the body there. 
Alas ! too well mine eyes indignant trace 
The last remains of Judah's royal race : 
Fall'n is our king, and all our fears are o'er. 
Unhappy Zedekiah is no more. 

Air. 

Ye wretches, who by fortune's hate 

In want and sorrow groan. 
Come, ponder his severer fate. 

And learn to bless your own. 

PIRST PROPHET. 

Ye vain, whom youth and pleasure guide, 

A while the bliss suspend ; 
Like yours, his life began in pride, 

Like his, your lives shall end. 

SECOND PROPHET. 

Behold his wretched corse with sorrow worn. 
His squalid limbs by ponderous fetters torn ; 
Those eyeless orbs that shook with ghastly glare, 
Those unbecoming rags, that matted hair ! 
And shall not Heaven for this avenge the foe. 
Grasp the red bolt, and lay the guilty low 1 



THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO. 93 

How long-, how long, Almighty God of all. 
Shall wrath vindictive threaten ere it fall 1 

Air. 

ISRAELITiSH WOMAN. 

As panting flies the hunted hind, 
Where brooks refreshing stray ; 

And rivers through the valley wind. 
That stop the hunter's way : 

Thus we. Lord, alike distress'd, 

For streams of mercy lono- ; 
Streams which cheer the sore oppress'd. 

And overwhelm the strong-. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

But whence that shout? Good heavens! Amaie- 

ment all! 
See yonder tower just nodding to the fall : 
Behold, an army covers all the ground, 
'Tis Cyrus here that pours destruction round : 
.4nd now, behold, the battlements recline— 
O God of hosts, the victory is thine ! 

CHORUS OP CAPTIVES. 

Down wifh them, Lord, to lick the dust; 

Thy vengeance be begun ; 
Serve them as they have served the jus^ 

And let thy will be done. 

FIRST PRIEST. 

All, all is lost ! The Syrian army fails, 
Cyrus, the conqueror of the world, prevails. 
The ruin smokes, the torrent pours along — 
How low the proud, how feeble are the strong ! 
Save us, O Lord ! to Thee, though late, we pray j 
And give repentance but an hour's delay. 

. 2G 



94 THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO. 

Air. 

FIRST AND SJtCOND PRIEST. 

O happy, who in happy hour 
To God their praise bestow. 

And own his all-consuming power 
Before they feel the blow I 

SECOND PROPHET. 

Now, now's our time ! ye wretches, bold and blind. 

Brave but to God, and cowards to mankind, 

Ye seek in vain the Lord unsought before. 

Your wealth, your lives, your kingdom, are no more ! 

Air. 

O Lucifer, thou son of mom, 

Of Heaven alike and man the foe, — 

Heaven, men, and all, 

Now press thy fall, 
And sink thee lowest of the low. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

O Babylon, how art thou fallen ! 
Thy fall more dreadful from delay ! 

Thy streets forlorn 

To wilds shall turn. 
Where toads shall pant and vultures prey. 

SECOND PROPHET. 

Such be her fate. But hark ! how from afar 
The clarion's note proclaims the finish'd war ! 
Our great restorer, Cyrus, is at hand. 
And this way leads his formidable band. 
Give, give your songs of Sion to the wind. 
And hail the benefactor of mankind : 
He comes, pursuant to divine decree. 
To chain the strong, and set the captive free. 



THE CAPTlVIi 1 . AN ORATOKIO. 93 



CHORUS OP YOUTHS, 



Rise to transports past expressing. 
Sweeter by remember'd woes ; 

Cyrus comes, our wrongs redressing. 
Comes to give the world repose. 



CHORUS OF VIRGINS. 



Cyrus comes, the world redressing. 

Love and pleasure in his train ; 
Comes to heighten every blessing. 

Comes to soften everv pain. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Hail to him with mercy reigning, 

Skill'd in every peaceful art ; 
Who, from bonds our limbs unchaining. 

Only binds the willing heart. 

THE LAST CHORUS. 

But chief to thee, our God, defender, friend, 
Let praise be given to all eternity ; 

O Thou, without beginning, without end. 
Let us and all begin and end in Thee ! 



LINES ATTRIBUTED TO DR. GOLDSMITH, 

INSERTED IN THE MORNING CHRONICLE OF APRIL 3, 1800. 

E'en have you seen, bathed in the morning dew. 
The budding rose its infant bloom display ; 

When first its virgin tints unfold to view, 

It shrinks, and scarcely trusts the blaze of day : 

So soft, so delicate, so sweet she came. 

Youth's damask glow just dawning on her cbeek j 
I gazed, I sigh'd, I caught the tender flame, 

Felt the fond pang, and droop'd with passion weak 



«r 



THE 

GOOD-NATURED MAN: 
A COMEDY. 

This admirable comedy was represented, for the first time, at Covent 
3arden, January 29, 1768, It keot nosspssinn nf .h= .„„'<.,■..:?_"_' 
liglits, but was considered bj 
:ll the success it deserved. 

*?hich had appeared since ' 1 

mated its merits still higher. 



This admirable comedy was represented, for the first time, at Covent 
Garden, January 29, 176^ It tept possession of the sta^e for ^fne 
n gits, but was considered by the author's friends not to have met with 
*'i"!f if"?'^^^' " <*es«r''e''. Dr. Johnson said it was the best comedT 
which had appeared since ' The Provoked Husband,' and Burke esS- 
mated its merits sbll higher. ' ""'"e esu- 



PREFACE. 

When I undertook to write a comedy, I confess I 
was strongly prepossessed in favour of the poets of the 
last age, and strove to imitate them. The term genteel 
comedy was then unknown amongst us, and little more 
was desired by an audience than nature and humour 
m whatever walks of life they were most conspicuous! 
'J'he author of the following scenes never imao^ined that 
more would be expected of him, and therefore to deli- 
neate character has been bis principal aim. - Those 
who know any thing of composition, are sensible that 
in pursuing humour, it will sometimes lead us into the 
recesses of the mean : I was even tempted to look for 
It in the master of a spunging-house ; but, in deference 
to the public taste— grown of late, perhaps, too deli- 
cate—the scene of the bailiffs was retrenched in the 
representation. In deference also to the judgment of 
a few friends, who think in a particular way the 
scene is here restored. The author submits it to the 
reader in his closet ; and hopes that too much refine- 
ment will not banish humour and character from ours 
as It has already done from the French theatre.' 
Indeed, the French comedy is now become so very 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. gy 

elevated and sentimental, that it has not only banished 
humour and ffloliere from the stage, but it has banished 
all spectators too. 

Upon the whole, the author returns nis thanks to 
the public, for the favourable reception which the 
Good-Nntvred Man has met with ; and to Mr. Colmaa 
in paktiouiar, for his kindness to it. It may not also 
be improper to assure any who shall hereafter writs 
for the theatre, that merit, or supposed merit, will ever 
be a sufficient passport to his protection. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

MEN. 

Mr. Honeywood. 

Croaker. 

Lofty. 

Sir William Honeywood. 

Leontine. 

Jarvis. 

Butler. 

Bailiff. 

Dubardieu. 

Postboy. 

WOMEN. 

Afiss Richland. 

Olivia. 

Mrs. Croaker. 

Garnet. 

liOTidlady. 

Scene — Loriiobi 



98 

THB 

GOOD-NATURED MAN 



PROLOGUE, 

WRITTEN BT DR. JOHNSON, SPOKEN BY MR. BENSLBT 

Press'd by the load of life, the weary miod 

Surveys the general toil of human kind, 

With cool submission joins the lab'ring train. 

And social sorrow loses half its pain : 

Our anxious bard, without complaint, may share 

This bustling season's epidemic care, 

Like Caesar's pilot, dignified by fate, 

Toss'd in one common storm with all the great ; 

Distress'd alike, the statesmen and the wit. 

When one a Borough courts, and one the Pit. 

The busy candidates for power and fame 

Have hopes, and fears, and wishes, just the same : 

Disabled both to combat or to fly. 

Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply; 

Uncheck'd, on both loud rabbles veal v.heir rage, 

As mongrels bay the lion in a cage. 

Th' offended burgess hoards his angry tale. 

For that blest year when all that vote may rail ; 

Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss, 

Till that glad night when all that hate may hiss. 

' This day, the powder'd curls and golden coat,* 

Says swelling Crispin, ' begg'd a cobbler's vote.' 

' This night our wit,' the pert apprentice cries, 

' Lies at my feet — I hiss him, and he dies.' 

The great, 'tis true, can charm th' electing tribe t 

The bard may supplicate, bu* cannot bribe. 



J 



THE GOOD NATURED MAN. 99 

Yet, judged by those whose voices ne'er were sold. 
He feels no want of ill-persuading gold ; 
But confident of praise if praise be due, 
Trusts without fear to merit and to you. 



ACT FIRST. 

Scene — an apartment in TOUNG HONKYWOODi HOUSE. 

Enter Sir William Honeywood and Jarvis. 

Sir William. Good Jarvis, make no apologies for 
this honest bluntness. Fidelity, like yours, is the best 
excuse for every freedom. 

Jarvis. 1 can't help being blunt, and bemg very 
ansry too, when I hear you talk of disinheriting so 
good, so worthy a young gentleman as your nephew, 
my master. All the world loves him. 

Sir WiUiam. Say rather, that he loves all the world ; 
that is his fault. 

Jarvis- I am sure there is no part of it more dear 
to him than you are, though he has not seen you since 
he was a child. 

Sir William. What signifies his affection to me? 
or how can 1 be proud of a place in a heart, where 
every sharper and coxcomb find an easy entrance? 

Jarvis. I grant you that he is rather too good- 
natured ; that he's too much every man's man ; that 
he laughs this minute with one, and cries the next 
with another : but whose instructions may he thank 
for all this ' 

Sir William. Not mine, sure. My letters to him 
during my employment in Italy, taught him only that 
philosophy which might prevent, not defend, his errors. 

Jai~vis. Faith, betrging vour honour's pardon, I'm 
sorry they taught him any philosophy at a'll : it has 
only served to spoil him. This same philosophy is a 
good horse in a stable, but an arrant jade on a jour- 
ney- For my own part, whenever I heai him men- 



100 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

tion the name oa't, I'm always sure he's going to plaj 
the fool. 

•Sir William. Don't let us ascribe his faults to his 
philosopliy, 1 entreat you. No, Jarvis, his good- 
nature arises rather from his fears of ofFending the im- 
portunate, than his desire of making the deserving 
happy. 

Jarvis. What it arises from, I don't know ; but, to 
be sure, every body has it that asks it. 

Sir William. Ay, or that does not ask it. I hav« 
been now for some time a concealed spectator of his 
follies, and find them as boundless as his dissipation. 

Jurvis. And yet, faith, he has some fine name or 
Other for them all. He calls his extravagance, gene- 
rosity ; and his trusting every body, universal benevo- 
lence, ft was but last week he went security for a 
fellow whose face he scarce knew, and that he called 
an act of exalted mu — mu — munificence ; ay, that 
was the name he gave it. 

Sir William. And upon that 1 proceed, as my last 
effort, though with very little hopes, to reclaim him. 
That very fellow has just absconded, and 1 have taken 
up the security. Now, my intention is to involve hire 
in fictitious distress, before he has plunged himself into 
real calamity : to arrest him for that very debt, to clap 
an officer upon him, and then let him see which of his 
friends will come to his relief. 

Jarvis. Well, if 1 could but any way see him 
thoroughly vexed, every groan of his would be music 
to me ; yet, faith, 1 believe it impossibte. 1 have tried 
to fret him myself every morning these three years ; 
but instead of being angry, he sits as calmly to hear 
me scold, as he does to h's hair-dresser. 

Sir William. We must try him once more, however, 
and I'll go this instant to put my scheme into execu- 
tion : and I don't despair of succeeding, as, by your 
means, I can have frequent opportunities of being 
about him without being known. What a pity it is, 
Jarvis, that any man's good-will to others should pro- 
duce so much neglect of himself, as to require cor- 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. I( I 

rection ! Yet we must touch hi? weaknesses with a 
delicate hand. There are some faults so nearly allied 
to excellence, that we can scarce weed out the vice 
without eradicating the virtue. [Exit. 

Jarms. Well, go thy ways, Sir William Honey wood. 
Tt is not without reason, that the world allows thee to 
be the best of men. But here comes his hopeful 
nephew — the strange, good-natured, foolish, open- 
hearted — And yet, all his faults are such, that one 
loves him still the better for them. 

Ente-^ Honeywood. 

Honeywood. Well, Jarvis, what messages from my 
friends this morning? 

Jarvis. Vou have no friends. 

Honenwood Well, from my acquaintance then'! 

Jarvis. (Pulling out bills.) A few of our usual cards 
of comphment, that's all. This bill from your tailor ; 
this from your mercer; and this from the little broker 
in Crooked-lane. He says he has been at a great deal 
of trouble to get back the money you borrowed. 

Honeywood. That 1 don't know ; but 1 am sure we 
were at a great deal of trouble in getting him to lend it. 

Jarvis. He has lost all patience. 

Honeywood. Then he has lost a very good thing. 

Jarvis. There's that ten guineas you were sending 
to the poor gentleman and his children in the Meet. 
1 believe that would stop his mouth for a while at 
least. 

Honeywood. Ay, Jarvis, but what will fill their 
mouths in the mean time 1 Must I be cruel, because 
he happens to be importunate ; and, to relieve his 
avarice, leave them to insupportable distress ? 

Jarvis. 'Sdeath ! sir, the question now is how to re- 
lieve yourself — yourself. Haven't I reason to be out 
of my senses, when 1 see things going at sixes and 
sevens ? 

Honeywood. Whatever reason you may have for 
being out of your senses, I hope you'll allow that I'm 
not quite unreasonable for continuing in mine. 



102 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Jarvis. You are the only man alive in your present 
situation that could do so. Every thing upon the 
waste. There's Miss Richland and her fine fortune 
gone already, and upon the point of being given to 
your rival. 

HoneyiDond. I'm no man's rival. 

Jarvis. Your uncle in Italy preparing to disinherit 
you ; your own fortune almost spent ; and nothing but 
pressing creditors, false friends, and a pack of drunken 
servants that your kindness has made unfit for any 
other family. 

Honeywood. Then they have the more occasion for 
being in mine. 

Jarvis. Soh ! What will you have done with him 
that I caught stealing your plate in the pantry I lo 
the fact — 1 caught him in the fact. 

Honeywood. In the fact ? If so, I really think that 
we should pay him his wages, and turn him off. 

Jarvis. He shall be turned off at Tyburn, the dog • 
we'll hang him, if it be only to frighten the rest of the 
family. 

Honeywood. No, Jarvis : it's enough that we have 
lost what he has stolen ; let us not add to it the loss of 
a fellow-creature ! 

Jarvis. Very fine ! well, here was the footman just 
now, to complain of the butler : he says he does most 
work, and ought to have most wages. 

Honeywood. That's but just ; though perhaps here 
comes the butler to complain of the footman. 

Jarvis. Ay, it's the way with them all, from the 
scullion to the privy-councillor. If they have a bad 
master, they keep quarrelling with him ; if they have 
a good master, they keep quarrelling with one another. 

Enter Butler, drunk. 

Butler. Sir, I'll not stay in the family with Jona- 
than ; you must part with him, or part with me, that's 
the ex — ex — exposition of the matter, sir. 

Honeywood. Full and explicit enough. But what*» 
his fault, good Philip 1 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 103 

Butler. Sir, he's given to drinking^, sir, and I shall 
have my morals corrupted by keeping such company. 

Honeywood. Ha! ha! he has such a diverting way — 

Jarvis. Oh, quite amusing. 

Butler. I find my wine's a-going, sir ; and liquors 
don't go without mouths, sir — 1 hate a drunkard, sir. 

Honeywood. Well, well, Philip, I'll hear you upon 
that another time ; so go to bed now. 

Jarvis. To bed 1 let him go to the devil. 

Butler. Begging your honour's pardon, and begging 
your pardon, master Jarvis, I'll not go to bed nor to 
the devil neither. I have enough to do to mind my 
cellar. I forgot, your honour, Mr. Croaker is below. 
I came on purpose to tell you. 

Honeywood. Why didn't you shew him up, block- 
head ! 

Butler. Shew him up, sir ? With all my heart, sir. 
Up or down, all's one to me. [Exit. 

Jarvis. Ay, we have one or other of that family in this 
house from morning till niglit. He comes on the old 
affair, 1 suppose. The match between his son, that's 
just returned from Paris, and Miss Richland, the 
young lady he's guardian to. 

Honeywood. Perhaps so. Mr. Cioaker, knowing 
my friend,4iip for the young lady, has got it into his 
head that 1 can persuade her to what I please. 

Jarvis. Ah ! if you loved yourself but half as well 
as she loves you, we should soon see a marriage that 
would set all things to rights again. 

Honeywood. Love me ! Sure, Jarvis, you dream. 
No, no ; her intimacy with me never amounted to 
more than friendship — mere friendship. That she is 
the most lovely woman that ever warmed tlie human 
heart with desire, I own : but never let me harbour a 
thought of making her unhappy, by a connexion with 
one so unworthy her merits as I am. No, Jarvis, it 
shall be my study to ser"e her, even in spite of my 
wishes ; and to secure her happiness, though it destroys 
my own. 

Jarvis. Was ever the like 1 1 want patience. 



104 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Honeywood. Besides, Jarvis, though I could nVs?il 
Miss Richland's consent, do you think 1 could succeed 
with her guardian, or Mrs. Croaker, his wifel who, 
though both very fine in their way, are yet a littte 
opposite in their dispositions, you know. 

Jarvis Opposite enough, Heaven knows ! the very 
reverse of each other : she all laugh, and no joke ; he 
always complaining, and never sorrowful — a fretful 
poor soul, that has a new distress for every hour in the 
four-and-twenty — 

Houeywood. Hush, hush! he's coming up, he'll hear 
you. 

Jarvis One whose voice is a passing bell— 

Houeywood. Well, well ; go, do. 

Jarvis. A raven that bodes nothing but mischief— 
a coffin and cross-bones — a bundle of rue — a spng of 
deadly nightshade — a — ( Honey wood, stopping his 
mouth, at last pushes him off . ) [Exit Jartns. 

Houeywood. I must own my old monitor is not en- 
tirely wrong. There is something in my friend (breaker's 
conversation that quite depresses me. His very mirth 
is an antidote to all gaiety, and his appearance has a 
stronger effect on my spirits than an undertaker's shop 
— Mr. Croaker, this is such a satisfaction — 

Enter Croaker. 

Croaker. A pleasant morning to Mr. Honeywood, 
and many of them. How is this ? you look mostshock- 
ingly to-day, my dear friend. I hope this weather does 
not affer ^ jur spirits. To be sure, if this weather con- 
tinups — T say nothing ; but God send we be all better 
this dav three months ! 

Honeywood. I heartily concur in the wish, though, 
I own, not in your apprehensions. 

Croaker. May be not. Indeed, what signifies what 
weather we have in a country going to ruin like ours? 
taxes rising and trade falling ; money flying out of 
the kingdom, and Jesuits swarming into it. 1 know, 
at this time, no less than a hundred and twenty-seven 
Jesuits between during Cross and Temple Bar. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 105 

Uoneywood. The Jesuits will scarce pervert you or 
me, I sliould hope. 

Croaker. May be not. Indeed, what signifies 
whom they pervert, in a country that has scarce any 
religion to lose? I'm only afraid for our wives and 
daughters. 

Houeywond. I have no apprehensions for the ladies, 
I assure you. 

Croaker. May be not. Indeed, what signifies 
whether they be perverted or no I The women in my 
time were good for something. I have seen a lady 
drest from top to toe in her own manufactures for- 
merly : but now-a-days, the devil a thing of their own 
manufacture's about them, except their faces. 

Honeywood. But, however these faults may ba 
practised abroad, you don't find them at home, either 
with Mrs. Croaker, Olivia, or Miss Richland? 

Croaker. The best of them will never be canonized 
for a saint when she's dead. — By the by, my dear 
friend, 1 don't find this match between Miss Richland 
and my son much relished, either by one side or 
t'other. 

Honeywood. I thought otherwise. 

Croaker. Ah ! Mr, Honeywood, a little of your 
fine serious advice to the young lady might go far : 
I know she has a very exalted opinion of your un- 
derstanding. 

Honeyuood. But would not that be usurping an 
authority, that more properly belongs to yourself? 

Croaker. My dear friend, you know but little of my 
authority at home. People t+iink, indeed, because 
they see me come out in the morning thus, with a 
pleasant face, and to make my friends merry, that 
all's well within. But I have cares that would break 
a heart of stone. My wife has so encroached upon 
every one of my privileges, that I'm now no more 
than a mere lodger in my own house. 

Honeywood. But a little spirit exerted on your side 
might perhaps restore your authority. 

Croaker. No, though I had the spirit of a lion! I 
F2 



106 THE GOOD-NATURED M^N. 

do rouse sometimes ; but what then? always haggling 
and haggling. A man is tired of getting the better, 
before his wife is tired of losing the victory. 

Honeywood. it's a melancholy consideration, in- 
deed, that our chief comforts often produce our great- 
est anxieties, and that an increase of our possessions is 
but an inlet to new disquietudes. 

Croaker. Ah ! my dear friend, these were the very 
words of poor Dick Doleful to me, not a week before 
he made away with himself. Indeed, Mr. Honey- 
wood, 1 never see you but you put me in mind of 
poor Dick. Ah ! there was merit neglected for you ; 
and so true a friend ! we loved each other for thirty 
years, and yet he never asked me to lend him a single 
farthing. 

Honeiiwood. Pray what could induce him to com- 
mit so riish an action at lastl 

Croaker. 1 don't know : some people were mali- 
cious enough to say it was keeping company with me ; 
because we used to meet now and then, and open our 
hearts to each other. To be sure, 1 loved to hear 
him talk, and he loved to hear me talk ; poor dear 
Dick ! He used to say that Croaker rhymed to joker ; 
and so we used to laugh — Poor Dick! [Goingtocry. 

Honeywood. His fate affects me. 

Croaker. Ah ! he grew sick of this miserable life, 
where we do nothing but eat and grow hungry, dress 
and undress, get up and lie down ; while reason,- that 
should watch like a nurse by our side, falls as fast 
asleep as we do. 

Honeywood. To say a truth, if we compare that 
part of life whi(-h is to come, by that which we have 
past, the prospect is hideous. 

Croaker. Life, at the greatest and best, is but a 
froward child, that must be humoured and coaxed a 
little till it falls asleep, and then all the care is over. 

Honeywood. Very truo, sir, nothing can exceed the 
vanity of our existence, but the folly of our pursuits. 
We wept when we came into the world, and every 
day tells us why. 



THE GOOD NATURED MAN. 107 

Croaker. Ah! my dear friend, it is a perfect satis- 
faction to be miserable with you. My son Leoiitine 
shan't lose the benefit of such fine conversation. I'll 
just step home for him. I am willing to shew him 
so much seriousness in one scarce older than himself. 
And what if 1 bring my last letter to the Gazetteer, on 
the increase and progress of earthquakes'! It will 
amuse us, I promise you. I there prove how the late 
earthquake is coming round to pay us another visit — 
from London to Lisbon — from Lisbon to the Canary 
Islands — from the Canary Islands to Palmyra— frotn 
Palmyra to Constantinople, and so from Constanti- 
nople back to London again. \_Exit. 
Honeywood. Poor Croaker ! his situation deserves 
the utmost pity. 1 shall scarce recover my spirits 
these three days. Sure, to live upon such terms, is 
worse than death itself. And yet, when 1 consider 
my own situation — a broken fortune, a hopeless pas- 
sion, friends in distress, the wish, but not the power 
to serve them [Puiwing and sighing. 

Enter Butler. 

Butler. More company below, sir ; Mrs. Croaker 
and Miss Richland; shall 1 shew them up? — but 
they're shewing up themselves. [Eitt. 

Enter Mrs. Croaker and Miss Richland. 

Miss Bichland. You're always in such spirits. 

Mrs. Croaker. We have just come, my dear Honey- 
wood, from the auction. There was the old deaf 
dowager, as usual, bidding like a fury against herself. 
And then so curious in antiquities ! herself, the most 
genuine piece of antiquity in the whole collection. 

Honeywood. Excuse me, ladies, if some uneasiness 
from friendship makes me unfit to share in this good 
humour: I know you'll pardon me. 

Mrs. Croaker. I vow he seems as melancholy as if 
he had taken a dose of my husband this morning. 
Well, if Richland here can pardon you, I must. 



108 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 



Miss Richland. You would seem to insinuate, 
madam, that 1 have particular reasons for being dis- 
posed to refuse it. 

Mrs. Croaker. Whatever I insinuate, my dear, 
don't be so ready to wish an explanation. 

Miss Richland. I own I should be sorry Mr. 
Honey wood's long friendship and mine should be mis- 
understood. 

Honeywood. There's no answering for others, ma- 
dam. But I hope you'll never find me presuming to 
offer more than the most delicate friendship may rea- 
dily allow. 

Miss Richland. And I shall be prouder of such a 
tribute from you, than the most passionate professions 
from others. 

Honeywond. My own sentiments, madam : friend- 
ship is a disinterested commerce between equals ; love, 
an abject intercourse between tyrants and slaves. 

Miss Richland. And without a compliment, I knovir 
none more disinterested, or more capable of friendship, 
than Mr. Honeywood. 

Mrs. Croaker. And, indeed, I know nobody that 
has more friends, at least among the ladies. Miss 
Fruzz, Miss Oddbody, and Miss Winterbottom, praise 
him in all companies. As for Miss Biddy Bundle, 
she's his professed admirer. 

Miss R:chland. Indeed ! an admirer ! — I did not 
know, sir, you were such a favourite there. 'But is 
she seriously so handsome 1 Is she the mighty thing 
talked of? 

Honeywood. The town, madam, seldom begins to 
praise a lady's beauty, till she's beginning to lose it. 

[^Smiling, 

Mrs. CroakiT. But she's resolved never to lose it, it 
seems. For as her natural face decays, her skill im- 
proves in making the artificial one. Well, nothing 
diverts me more than one of those fine, old, dressy 
things, who thrnks to conceal her age by every where 
exposing her person ; sticking herself up in the front 
of a side-box J trailing through a minuet at Almack's; 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 109 

and then, in the public gardens — looking, for all the 
world, like one of the painted ruins of the place. 

Honeywood. Every age has its admirers, ladies. 
While you, perhaps, are trading among the warmer 
climates of youth, there ought to be some to carry on 
a useful commerce in the frozen latitudes beyond 
fifty. 

Miss Richland. But, then, the mortifications they 
must suffer, before they can be fitted out for traflSc. 
I have seen one of them fret a whole morning at her 
hair-dresser, when all the fault was her face. 

Honeywood. And yet, I'll engage, has carried that 
face at last to a very good market. This good-na- 
tured town, madam, has husbands, like spectacles, to 
fit every age from fifteen to fourscore. 

Mrs. Croaker. Well, you're a dear good-natured 
creature. But you know you're engaged with us this 
morning upon a strolling party. I want to shew 
Olivia the town, and the things : I believe I shall 
have business for you the whole day. 

Honeywood. I am sorry, madam, I have an ap- 
pointment with Mt. Croaker, which it is impossible to 
put off. 

Mrs. Croaker. What ! with my husband ? then I'm 
resolved to take no refusal. Nay, I protest you must. 
You know I never laugh so much as with you. 

Honeywood. Why, if I must, I must. I'll swear 
you have put me into such spirits. Well, do you 
find jest, and I'll find laugh, I promise you. We'll 
wait for the chariot in the next room. [^Exeunt. 

Enter Leontine and Olivia, 

Leontine. There they go, thoughtless and happy. 
My dearest Olivia, what would I give to see you 
capable of sharing in their amusements, and as cheer- 
ful as they are ! 

Olivia. How, my Leontine, how can I be cheerful, 
when I have so many terrors to oppress rae 1 The 
fear of being detected by this family, and the appre- 



no THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

hensions of a censuring world, when I must be de- 
tected ' 

Leontine. The world, my love ! what can it say 1 
At worst it can only say, that, being compelled by a 
mercenary guardian to embrace a life you disliked, 
you for.Tied a resolution of flying with-the man of 
your choice ; that you confided in his honour, and 
took refuge in my father's house, — the only one 
where yours could remain without censure. 

Olivia. But cansider, Leontine, your disobedience 
and my indiscretion ; your being sent to France to 
bring home a sister, and, instead of a sister, bringing 
home • 

Leontine. One dearer than a thousand sisters. One 
that I am convinced will be equally dear to the rest 
of the family, when she comes to be known. 

Olivia. And that, I fear, will shortly be. 

Leontine. Impossible, till we ourselves think proper 
to make the discovery. My sister, you know, has 
been with her aunt, at Lyons, since she was a child, 
and you find every creature in the family takes you 
for her. 

Olivia. But mayn't she write, mayn't her aunt 
write'! 

Leontine. Her aunt scarce ever writes, and all my 
sister's letters are directed to me. 

Olivia. But won't your refusing Miss Richland, 
for whom you know the old gentleman intends you, 
create a suspicion 7 

Leontine. There, there's my master-stroke. I have 
resolved not to refuse her ; nay, an hour hence I 
have consented to go with my father to make her 
an offer of my heart and fortune. 

Olivia. Your heart and fortune ! 

Leontine. Don't be alarmed, my dearest. Can 
Olivia think so meanly of my honour, or my love, as 
to suppose I could ever hope for happiness from any 
but her 7 No, my Olivia, neither the force, nor, per- 
mit me to add, the delicacy of rny passion, leave any 
room to suspett me. I only offer Miss llicliiaud a 



THE GOOD-NATLIISD ilAN. m 

heart I am convinced she will refuse ; as I am con- 
fident, tiiat, without knowing it, her affections are 
fixed upon Mr. Honeywood. 

Olivia. Mr. Honeywood ! You'll excuse my ap- 
prehensions ; but when your merits come to be put 
in the balance 

Leontine. You view them with too much partiality. 
However, by making this offer, I shew a seeming 
compliance with my father's command ; and perhaps, 
upon her refusal, I may have his consent to choose 
for myself. 

Olivia. Well, I submit. And yet, my Leontine, I 
own, I shall envy her even your pretended addresses. 
I consider every look, every expression of your esteem, 
as due only to me. This is folly, perhaps ; I allow it: 
but it is natural t% suppose, that merit which has 
made an impression on one's own heart may be 
powerful over that of another. 

Leontine. Don't, my life's treasure, don't let us 
make imaginary evils, when you know we have so 
many real ones to encounter. At worst, you know, 
if Miss Richland should consent, or my father refuse 
his pardon, it can but end in a trip to Scotland; 
and — — 

Enter Croaker. 

Croaker. Where have you been, boy 1 I have 
been seeking you. My friend Honeywood here has 
been saying such comfortable things ! Ah ! he's an 
example indeed. Where is he? I left him here. 

Leontine. Sir, I believe you may see him, and 
hear him too, in the next room: he's preparing to go 
out with the ladies. 

Croaker. Good gracious! can I believe my eyes 
or my ears ; I'm struck dumb with his vivacity, and 
stunned with the loudness of his laugh. Was there 
ever such a transformation! (a laugh behind the 
scenes. Croaker mimics it.) Ha! ha! ha! there it 
goes : a plague take their balderdash ! yet I could 
expect nothing less, when my precious wife was of 



112 THE GOOD-NATURED MaN. 

the party. On my conscience, I believe she could 
spread a horse-laugh through the pews of a tabernacle. 

Leontine. Since you find so many objections to a 
wife, sir, how can you be so earnest in recommending 
one to me ? 

Croaker. I have told you, and tell you again, boy, 
that Miss Richland's fortune must not go out of the 
family ; one may find comfort in the money, what- 
ever one does in the wife. 

Leontine. But, sir, though in obedience to your 
desire, I am ready to marry her, it may be possible 
she has no inclination to me. ♦ 

Croaker. I'll tell you once for all how it stands. 
A good part of Miss Richland's large fortune consists 
in a claim upon government, which my good friend, 
Mr. Lofty, assures me the Treasuiijf yifill allow. One 
half of this she is to forfeit, by her father's will, in 
case she refuses to marry you. So, if she rejects you, 
we seize half her fortune ; if she accepts you, we 
seize the whole, and a fine girl into the bargain. 

Leontine. But, sir, if you will listen to reason 

Croaker. Come, then, produce your reasons. I 
tell you, I'm fixed, determined — so now produce 
your reasons. When I am determined, I always 
listen to reason, because it can then do no harm. 

Leontine. You have alleged that a mutual choice 
was the first requisite in matrimonial happiness* 

Croaker. Well, and you have both of you a mutual 
choice. She has her choice, — to marry you or lose 
half her fortune ; and you have your choice, — to 
marry her, or pack out of doors without any fortune 
at all. 

Leontine. An only son, sir, might expect more in- 
dulgence. 

Croaker. An only father, sir, might expect more 
obedience : besides, has not your sister here, that 
never disobliged me in her life, as good a right as 
you ? He's a sad dog, Livy, my dear, and would 
take all from you. But he shan't, I tell you he 
shan't ; for jrou shall have your share. 



THK GOOD-NAIURliD MAN. 113 

Olivia. Dear sir, 1 wish you'd be convinced, that 
I can never be happy in any addition to my fortune, 
which is taken from his. 

Croaker. Well, well, it's a good child, so say no 
more ; but come with me, and we shall see something 
that will give us a great deal of pleasure, I promise 
you, — old Ruggins, the currycomb maker, lying in 
state : I am told he makes a very handsome corpse, 
and becomes his coffin prodigiously. He was an in- 
timate friend of mine, and these are friendly things 
we ought to do for each other. [Exeunt, 



ACT SECOND. 

Scene — croaker's house. 
Miss Ilichland, Garnet. 

Miss Richland. Olivia not his sister? Olivia not 
Leontine's sister ? You amaze me ! 

Garnet. No more his sister than I am ; I had it 
all from his own servant : I can get any thing from 
that quarter. 

Miss Richland. But how? Tell me again. Garnet. 

Garnet. Why, madam, as I told you before, in- 
stead of going to Lyons to bring home his sister, who 
has been there with her aunt these ten years, he never 
went farther than Paris : there he saw and fell in 
love with this young lady — by the by, of a prodigious 
family. 

-Miss Richland. And brought her home to my 
guardian as his daughter? 

Garnet. Yes, and his daughter she will be. If he 
don't consent to their marriage, they talk of trying 
what a Scotch parson can do. 

Miss Richland. Well, I own they have deceived 
me. And so demuruly as Olivia carried it (oo! — 



114 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Would you believe it. Garnet, I told her all mj 
secrets ; and yet the sly cheat concealed all this from 
me ! 

Garnet. And, upon my word, madam, I don t 
much blame her : she was loath to trust one with her 
secrets, th-at was so very bad at keeping- her own. 

Miss Richland. But, to add to their deceit, the 
young gentleman, it seems, pretends to make me 
serious proposals. My guardian and he are to be 
-jere presently, to open the affair in form. You know 
. am to lose half my fortune if I refuse him. 

Garnet. Yet, what can you do 1 For being, as you 
are, in love with Mr. Honeywood, madam 

Mi!,s Richlajid. How ! idiot, what do you mean? 
In love with Mr. Honeywood ! Is this to provoke me 1 

Garnet. That is, madam, in friendship with him : I 
meant nothing more than friendship., as I hope to be 
married — nothing more. 

Mis3 Richland. Well, no more of this. As to my 
guardian and his son, they shall find me prepared to 
receive them: I'm resolved to accept their proposal 
with seeming pleasure, to mortify them by compli- 
ance, and so throw the refusal at last upon them. 

Garnet. Delicious! and that will secure your whole 
fortune to yourself. Well, who could have thought 
so innocent a face could cover so much 'cuteness ! 

Miss Richland. Why, girl, I only oppose my pru- 
dence to their cunning, and practise a lesson they have 
taught me against themselves. 

Garnet. Then you're likely not long to want em- 
ployment, for here they come, and in close conference. 

Enter Croaker and Leontine. 

Leontine. Excuse me, sir, if I seem to hesitate upon 
the point of putting to the lady so important a question. 

Croaker, Lord ! good sir, moderate your fears ; 
you're so plaguy shy, that one would think you had 
changed sexes. I tell you we must have the half or 
the wh )le. Come, let me see with what spirit you 
begin: Well, why don't you ■? Eh! Whati Well 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 115 

then, I must, it seems — Miss Richland, my dear, I 
believe you guess at our business ; an affair which my 
son here comes to open, that nearly concerns your 
happiness. 

Miss Richland. Sir, I should be ungrateful not to 
be pleased with any thing that comes recommended 
by you. • 

Croaker. How, boy, could you desire a finer open- 
ing? Why don't you begin, I say? [To Leontine. 

Leontine. 'Tis true, madam — my father, madam — 
has same intentions — hem — of explaining an affair, — 
which — himself can beat explain, madam. 

Croaker. Yes, my dear ; it comes entirely from my 
son ; it's all a request of his own, madam. And I 
will permit him to make the best of it. 

Leontine. The whole affair is only this, madam : 
my father has a proposal to make, which he insists 
none but himself shall deliver. 

Croaker, My mind misgives me, the fellow will 
never be brought on. (^side..) In short, madam, you 
see before you one that loves you — one whose whole 
happiness is all in you. 

Miss Richland. I never had any doubts of your 
regard, sir; and I hope you can have none of my 
duty. 

Croaker. That's not the thing, my little sweeting — 
My love ! no, no, another guess lover than I : there 
he stands, madam ; his very looks declare the force of 
his passion — Call up a look, you dog! (Aside.} But 
then, had you seen him, as 1 have, weeping, speaking 
soliloquies and blank verse, sometimes melancholy, 
and sometimes absent - 

Miss Richland. 1 fear, sir, he's absent now ; or such 
a declaration vv'ould have come most properly from 
himself. 

Croaker. Himself ! IMadam, he would die before he 
could make such a confession ; and if he had not a 
channel for his passion through me, it would ere now 
have drowned his understanding. 

Miss Richland. 1 riiust grant, sir, there are attrac- 



116 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

tions in modest diffidence above the force of wordsj 
A silent address is the genuine eloquence of sincerity. 

Croaker. Madam, he has forgot to speak any other 
language ; silence is become his mother-tongue. 

Miss Richland. And it must be confessed, sir, it 
speaks very powerfully in liis favour. And yet I shall 
be thought too forward ^n making such a confession.; 
shan't 1, Mr. Leonline 1 

Leontine. Confusion ! my reserve will undo me. 
But, if modesty attracts her, impudence may disgust 
her. I'll try. (Aside.) Don't imagine from my 
silence, madam, that I want a due sense of the lionour 
and happiness intended me. My father, madam, tells 
me your humble servant is not totally indifferent to 
you — he admires you : I adore you ; and when we 
come together, upon my soul, I believe we shall be 
the happiest couple in all St. James's. 

Miss Richland. If I could flatter myself you thought 
as you speak, sir 

Leontine. Doubt my sincerity, madam 1 By your 
dear self I swear. Ask the brave if they desire glory 1 
ask cowards if they covet safety 

Civaker. Well, well, no more questions about it. 

Leontine. Ask the sick if they long for health? 
ask misers if they love money 1 ask 

Croaker. Ask a fool if he can talk nonsense ? What's 
come over the boy 1 What signifies asking, when 
there's not a soul to give you an answer? If you 
would ask to the purpose, ask this lady's consent to 
make you happy. 

Miss Richland. Why, indeed, sir, his uncommon 
ardour almost compels me — forces me to comply. — 
And yet I'm afraid he'll despise a conquest gained 
with too much ease ; won't you, Mr. Leontine '' 

Leontine. Confusion ! (Aside.) Oh, by no means, 
madam, by no means. And yet, madam, you talked 
of force. There is nothing 1 would avoid so much as 
compulsion in a thing of this kind. No, madam, I 
will still be generous, and leave you at liberty to 
refuse. 



THE GOOD-x\ATURED MAN- 117 

Croaker. But I tell you, sir, the lady k not at 
liberty. It's a match. You see she says nothing. 
Silence gives consent. 

Leontine. But, sir, she talked of force. Consider, 
sir, the cruelty of constraining her inclinations. 

Croaker. But I say there's no cruelty. Don't you 
know, blockhead, that girls have always a round- 
about way of saying yes before company 1 So get you 
both gone together into the next room, and hang him 
that interrupts the tender explanations. Get you gone, 
I say ; I'll not hear a word. 

Leonliiie. But, sir, I must beg leave to insist — 

Croaker. Get oflT, you puppy, or I'll beg leave to 

insist upon knocking you down. Stupid whelp ! But 

I don't wonder : the boy takes entirely after his 

mother. [Exeunt Miss Richland and Leontine. 

Enter Mrs. Croaker. 

Mrs. Croaker. Mr. Croaker, 1 bring you something, 
my dear, that I believe will make you smile. 

Croaker. I'll hold you a guinea of that, my dear, 

Mrs. Croaker. A letter ; and as I knew the liand, I 
ventured to open it. 

Croaker. And how can you expect your breaking 
open my letters should give me pleasure ? 

Mrs. Croaker. Pooh ! it's from your sister at Lyons, 
and contains good news : read it. 

Croaker. What a Frenchified cover is here! That 
sister of mine has some good qualities, but I could 
never teach her to fold a letter. 

Mrs. Croaker. Fold a fiddlestick ! Read what it 
contains. 

Croaker (reading}. 

' Dear Ntca, — An English gentleman, of large 
fortune, has for some time made private, though 
honourable, proposals to your daughter Olivia. They 
love each other tenderly, and I find she has consented, 
without letting any of the family know, to crown his 



lis XHE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

addresses. As such good offers don't come every day, 
your own good sense, his large fortune, and family 
considerations, will induce you to forgive her. Yours 
ever, Rachael Croaker.' 

My daughter Olivia privately contracted to a man of 
large fortune ! This is good news indeed. My heart 
never foretold me of this. And yet, how slily the little 
baggage has carried it since she came home ; not a 
v/ord on't to the old ones for the world. Yet I thought 
I saw something she vs^anted to conceal. 

Mrs. Croaker. Well,, if they have concealed their 
amour, they shan't conceal their wedding ; that shall 
be public, I'm resolved. 

Croaker. I tell thee, woman, the wedding is the 
most foolish part of the ceremony. I can nevei get 
this woman to think of the most serious part of the 
nuptial engagement. 

Mrs. Croaker. What ! would you have me think of 
their funeral 7 But come, tell me, my dear, don't }'ou 
owe more to me than you care to confess 1 — Would 
you have ever been known to Mr. Lofty, who has 
undertaken Miss Richland's claim at the Treasury, 
but for me 1 Who was it first made him an acquaint- 
ance at Lady Shabbaroon's rout"! Who got him to 
promise us his interest?. Is not he a back-stair favou- 
rite — one that can do wliat he pleases with those that 
do what they please 1 Is not he an acquaintance that 
all your groaning and lamentations could never have 
got us ] 

Croaker. He is a man of importance, I grant you. 
And yet what amazes me is, that, while he is giving 
away places to all the world, he can't get one for 
himself. 

Mrs. Croaker. That, perhaps, may be owing to hia 
nicety. Great men are not easily satisfied. 

Enter French Servant. 

Servant. An expresse from Monsieur Lofty. He vil 
be vait upon your honours insfammant. He be onlv 



e 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 119 

giving four five instruction, read two tree memorial, 
call upon von ambassadeur. He vil be vid you in 
one tree minutes. 

Mrs. Croaker. You see novir, my dear. What an 
extensive department ! Well, friend, let your master 
knovc that vi^e are extremely honoured by this honour. 
Was there any thing ever in a higher style of breeding'! 
All messages among the great are now done by ex- 
press. [^Exit French servant. 

Croaker. To be sure, no man does little things with 
more solemnity, or claims more respect, than he. But 
he's in the right on't. In our bad world, respect is 
given where respect is claimed. 

Mrs. Croaker. Never mind the viforld, my dear; 
you were never in a pleasanter place in your life. 
Let us now think of receiving him with proper respect, 
(o loud rapping at the door,) and there he is, by the 
thundering rap. 

Croaker. Ay, verily, there he is 1 as close upon the 
heels of his own express, as an endorsement upon the 
back of a bill. Well, I'll leave you to receive him, 
whilst I go to chide my little Olivia for intending to 
steal a marriage without mine or her aunt's consent. 
I must seem to be angry, or she too may begin to 
despise my authority. [Exit. 

Enter Lofty, speaking to his Servant. 

Lofty. And if the Venetian ambassador, or that 
teasing creature the Marquis, should call, I'm not at 
home. Damme, I'll be pack-horse to none of them. — 
My dear madam, I have just snatched a moment — 
And if the expresses to his Grace be ready, let them 
be sent off; they're of importance. — Madam, I ask 
ten thousand pardons. 

Mrs. Croaker. Sir, this honour 

Lofty. And, Dubardieu ! if the person calls about 
the commission, let him know that it is made out. As 
for Lord Cumbercourt's stale request, it can keep cold : 
you understand me. — Madam, I ask ten thousand 
pardons. 



!20 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Mrs. Croaker. Sir, this honour i 

Lofty. And, Dabardieu ! if the man comes from the 
Cornish borough, j'ou must do him ; you must do himj 
1 say. — Madam, 1 ask. ten thousand pardons. — And if 
the Russian ambassador calls ; but he will scarce call 
to-day, I believe. — And now, madam, I have just got 
time to express my happiness in having the honour of 
being permitted to profess myself your most obedient 
humble servant. 

Mrs. Croaker. Sir, the happiness and honour are all 
mine ; and yet, I'm only robbing the public while 1 
detain you. 

Lofty. Sink the public, madam, when the fair are 
to be attended. Ah, could all my hours be so charm- 
ingly devoted ! Sincerely, don't you pity us poor crea- 
tures in affairs ■? Thus it is eternally j solicited for 
places here, teased for pensions, there, and courted 
every where. I know you pity me. Yes, I see you do. 

Mrs. Croaker. Excuse me, sir, ' Toils of empires 
pleasures are,' as Waller says. 

Lofty. Waller — Waller; is he of the House'? 

Mrs. Croaker. The modern poet of that name, sir. 

Lofty. Oh, a modern ! We men of business despise 
the moderns ; and as for the ancients, we have no time 
to read them. Poetry is a pretty thing enough for our 
wives and daughters ; but not for us. Why now, here 
I stand that know nothing of books. I say,,madam, 
I know notliing of books ; and yet, I believe, upon a 
land-carriage fishery, a stamp act, or a jaghire, I can 
talk my two hours without feeling the want of tl)em. 

Mrs. Croaker. The world is no stranger to Mr. Lofty 's 
eminence in every capacity. 

Loftv. 1 vow to gad, madam, you make me blush. 
I'm "nothing, nothing, nothing in the world ; a mere 
obscure gentleman, 'i'o be sure, indeed, one or two 
of tlie present ministers are pleased to represent nie ;is 
a formidable man. 1 know they are pleased to be- 
spatter me at all their little dirty levees. Yet, upo:i 
my soul, I wonder what they see in me to treat ir.e si; ! 
Measures, not men, have always been my mark ; 8i:J 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 121 

I vow, by all that's honourable, my resentment has 
never done ihe men, as mere men, any manner of 
harm — that is, as mere men. 

Mrs. Croaker. What importance, and yet what 
modesty ! 

Lofty. Oh, if you talk of modesty, madam, there, I 
own," I'm accessible to praise : modesty is my foible : 
it was so the Duke of Brentford used to say of me. 
'I love Jack Lofty,' he used to say, ' no man has a 
finer knowledge of things ; quite a man of information ; 
and when he speaks upon his legs, by the Lord, he's 
prodigious — he scouts them ; and yet all men have 
their faults : too much modesty is his,' says his Grace. 

Mrs. Croaker. And yet, I dare say, you don't want 
assurance when you come to solicit for your friends. 

Lofty. Oh, there, indeed, I'm in bronze. Apropos ! 
1 have just been mentioning Miss Richland's case to 
a certain personage ; we must name no names. When 
I ask, I'm not to be put off, madam. No, no, I take 
my friend by the button. A fine girl, sir ; great jus- 
tice in her case. A friend of mine. Borough interest. 
Business must be done, Mr. Secretary. I say, Mr. 
Secretary, her business must, be done, sir. That's my 
wav, madam. 

Mrs. Croaker. Bkss me ! you said all this to the Se- 
cretary of State, did you ? 

Lojty. I did not say the Secretary, did 1 1 Well, 
curse it, since you have found me out, I will not deny 
it, — it was to the Secretary. 

Mrs. Croaker. This was going to the fountain-head 
at once, not applying to the understrappers, as Mr. 
Honeywood would have had us. 

Lofti^. Honeywood! he! he! He was, indeed, a 
fine solicitor. I suppose you have heard what has 
just happened to him ? 

Mrs. Croaker. Poor dear man! no accident, I hope? 

Lofty. Undone, madam, that's all. His creditors 
have taken him into custody — a prisoner in his own 
house. 

G 



122 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Mrs. Croaker. A prisoner in his own house ! Howl 
At this very time 1 I'm quite unhappy for him. 

Lofty. Why, so am I. The man, to be sure, was 
immensely good-natured. But then, I could never 
find that he had any thing in him. 

Mrs. Croaker. His manner, to be sure, was exces- 
sive harmless ; some, indeed, thought it a little du'll. 
For my part, 1 always concealed my opinion. 

Lofty. It can't be concealed, madam ; the man was 
duH — dull as the last new comedy ! a poor impracti- 
cable creature ! 1 tried once or twice to know if he was 
fit for business ; but he had scarce talents to be groom- 
porter to an orange-barrow. 

Mrs. Croaker. How differently does Miss Richland 
think of him ! For, 1 believe, with all his faults, she 
loves him. 

Lofty. Loves him ! does she ? You should cure 
her of that by all means. Let me see ; what if she 
were sent to him this instant, in his present doleful 
situation ? My life for it, that works her cure. Dis- 
tress is a perfect antidote to love. Suppose we join 
her in the next room 1 Miss Richland is a fine girl, 
has a fine fortune, and must not be thrown away. 
Upon my honour, madam, I have a regard for Miss 
Richland ; and, rather than she should be thrown 
away, I should think it no indignity to marry her my- 
self. [^Exeum. 

Enter Oiivia and Leontine. 

Leontine. And yet, trust me, Olivia, I had every 
reason to expect Miss Richland's refusal, as I did every 
thing in my power to deserve it. Her indelicacy sur- 
prises me. 

Olivia. Sure, Leontine, there's nothing so indelicate 
in being sensible of your merit. If so, I fear 1 shall 
be the most guilty thing alive. 

Leontine. But you mistake, my dear. The same 
attention I used to advance my merit with you, T prac- 
tised to lessen it with her. What more could I do? 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 123 

Olivia. Let us now rather consider what is to be 
done. We have both dissembled too long. I have 
always been ashamed— 1 am now quite weary of it. 
Sure I could never have undergone so much for any 
other but you. 

Leontine. And you shall find my gratitude equal to 
your kindest compliance. Though our friends should 
totally forsake us, Olivia, we can draw upon content 
for the deficiencies of fortune. 

Olivia. Then why should we defer our scheme of 
humble happiness, when it is now in our power 1 I 
may be the favourite of your father, it is true ; but can 
it ever be thought, that his present kindness to a sup- 
posed child will continue to a known deceiver] 

Leontine. 1 have many reasons lo believe it will. As 
his attachments are but few. they are lasting. His 
own marriage was a private one, as ours may be. Be- 
sides, 1 have sounded him already at a distance, and 
find all his answers exactly to our wish. Nay, by an 
expression or two that dropped from him, i am in- 
duced to think he knows of this affair. 

Olivia. Indeed ! But that would be a happiness too 
great to be expected. 

Leontine. However it be, I'm certain you have 
power over hrm ; and am persuaded, if you informed 
him of our situation, that he would be disposed to 
pardon it. 

Olivia. You had equal expectations, Leontine, from 
your last scheme with Miss Richland, which you find 
has succeeded most wretchedly. 

Leontine. And that's the best reason for trying 
another. 

Olivia. If it must be so, I submit. 

Leontine. As we could wish, he comes this way. 
Now, my dearest Olivia, be resolute. I'll just retire 
within hearing, to come in at a proper time, either to 
ghare your danger, or confirm your victory. lExit, 



124 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 



Enter Croaker. 

Crwiker. Yes, I must forgive her ; and yet not too 
easily, neither. It will be proper to keep up the de- 
corums of resentment a little, if it be only to impress 
her witli an idea of ray authority. 

Olivia. How I tremble to approach him ! — Might I 
presume, sir — If 1 interrupt you 

Cro.iker. No, child, whcEe 1 have an affection, it is 
not a liitle thing can interrupt me. Affection gets over 
little thmgs. 

Olivia. Sir, you're too kind. I'm sensible how ill 
I deserve this partiality ; yet, Heaven knovys, there is 
nothing I would not do to gain it. 

Croaker. And you have but too well succeeded, you 
little hussy, you. With those endearing ways of your's, 
on mv conscience, I could be brous:ht to forgive any 
thing, unless it were a very great offence indeed. 

Olivia. But mine is such an offence — When you 
know my guilt — Ves, you shall know it, though I 
feel the greatest pain in the confession. 

Croaher. Why, then, if it bs so very great a pain, 
you may spare yourself the trouble ; for I know every 
syllable of the matter before you begin. 

Olivia. Indeed ! then I'm undone. 

CroiikfT. Ay, miss, you wanted to steal a match, 
without letting me know it, did you? But I m not 
worth being consulted, I suppose, when there's to be 
a marriage in my own family. No, I'm to have no 
hand in the disposal of my own children. No, I'm 
nobody. I'm to be a mere article of family lumber; 
a piece of cracked china, to be stuck up in a corner. 

Olivia. Dear sir, nothing but the dread of your au- 
thority could induce us to conceal it from you. 

Croaker. No, no, my consequence is no more ; I'm 
as little minded as a dead Russian in winter, just stuck 
up with a pipe in its mouth till there comes a thaw — 
It goes to my heart to vex her. [Aside. 

Olivia. 1 wa.s prepared, sir, for your anger, and 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 125 

despaired of pardon, even while I presumed to ask it. 
But your severity shall never abate my affection, as 
my punishment is but justice. 

Croaker. And yet you should not despair, neither, 
Livy. We ought to hope all for the best. 

Olivia. And do you permit me to hope, sir 1 Can 
lever expect to be forgiven"! But hope has too 
long deceived me. 

Croaker. W hy then, child, it shan't deceive you 
now, for I forgive you this very moment; 1 forgive 
you alH and now you are indeed my daughter. 

OUva. Oh transport ! this kindness overpowers me. 

Croaker. I was always against severity to our chil- 
Iren. We have been young and giddy ourselves, and 
«ve can't expect boys and girls to be old before their 
time. 

Olivia. What generosity ! But can you forget the 
many fakeJioods, the dissimulation—— 

Croaker. You did indeed dissemble, you urchin 
you ; but where 's the girl that won't dissemble for a 
husband? My wife and I had never been married, if 
we had not dissembled a little beforehand. 

Olivia. It shall be my future care never to put 
such generosity to a second trial. And as for the 
partner of my offence and folly, from his native 
honour, and the just sense he has of his duty, I can 
answer for him that 

Enter Leontine, 

Leontine. Permit him thus to answer for himself. 
(Kneeling.) Thus, sir, let me speak my gratitude 
for this unmerited forgiveness. Yes, sir, this even 
exceeds all your former tenderness: 1 now can boast 
the most indulgent of fathers. The life he gave, com- 
pared to this, was but a trifling blessing 

Croaker. And, good sir, who sent for you, with 
that fine tragedy face, and flourishing manner? I 
don't know what we have to do with your gratitude 
upon this occasion. 



126 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Lenntine. How, sir I is it possible to be silent, 
when so mucli obliged ? Would you refuse me the 
pleasure of being grateful 1 of adding my thanks to 
my Olivia's? of sharing in the transports that you 
have thus occasioned 1 

Croaker. Lord, sir, we can he happy enough with- 
out your coming in to make up the party. 1 don't 
know what's the matter with the boy all this day ; he 
has got into such a rhodomontade manner all this 
morning I 

Leontine. But, sir, I that have so large a part in 
the benefit, is it not my duty to shew my joy 1 Is the 
being admitted to your favour so slight an obligation 1 
Is the happiness of marrying my Olivia so small a 
blessing 1 

Croaker. Marrying Olivia ! marrying Olivia ! mar- 
rying his own sister ! Sure the boy is out of his 
senses. His own sister! 

Leontine. My sister ! 

Olivia. Sister 1 how have I been mistaken ! [Aside, 

Leontine. Some cursed mistake in all this I find. 

[Aside, 

Creaker. What does the booby mean? or has he 
any meaning? Eh, what do you mean, you block- 
head, you ? 

Lenntine. Mean, sir? — why, sir — only when my 
sister is to be married, that 1 have the pleasure of 
marrying her, sir, — that is, of giving her away, sir — 
I have made a point of it. 

Croaker. Oli, is that all? Give her away. You 
have made a point of it ? Then you had as good make 
a point of first giving away yourself, as I'm going to 
prepare the writings between you and Miss Richland 
this very minute. What a fuss is here about nothing! 
Why what's the matter now? I thought I had made 
you at least as happy as you could wish. 

Olivia. Oh, yes, sir; very happy. 

Croaker. Do you foresee any thing, child 1 You 
Iffok as if you did. I think if any thing was to ba 



.li;, ^ . ■.-'it]*^;. 



- THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 127 

foreseen, I have as sharp a look-out as another ; and 
yet I foresee nothing. [£iit. 

Leontine and Olivia. 

Olivia. What can it mean? 

Leontine. He knows something, and yet, for my 
life, 1 can't tell what. 

Olivia. It can't be the connexion between us, I'm 
pretty certain. 

Leontine. Whatever it be, my dearest, I'm resolved 
to put It out of fortune's power to repeat our mortifi- 
cation. I'll haste and prepare for our journey to 
Scotland tliis very evenino;. My frieod Honeywood 
has promised me his advice and assistance. I'll go 
to him and repose our distresses on his friendly bosom; 
and 1 know so much of his honest heart, that if he 
can't relieve our uneasinesses, he will at least share 
them. l_ExeuiU. 



ACT THIRD. 

Scene — voung honeywood's house. 
Bailijf, Honeywood, Follower. 

Bailiff'. Lookye, sir, 1 ha-ve arrested as good men 
as you m my time — no disparagement of you neither 
— men that would go forty guineas on a game of 
cribbage. I challenge the town to shew a man in 
more genteeler practice than myself. 

Honei/wood. Without all question, Mr. I for- 
get your name, sir! 

Baliff. How can you forget what you never knewt 
he ! tie ! he ! 

Honeywood. May I beg leave to ask your name ? 

Baliff. Yes, you may. 

Hoaeifwood. Then, pray sir, what is your name? 

Bailiff. That I didn't promise to tell you. — He I 



128 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

he ! he ! — A joke breaks no bones, as we say among 
us that practise the law. 

Honeywood. You may have reason for keeping it a 
secret, perhaps ? 

Bailiff. The law does nothing without reason. I'm 
ashamed to tell my name to no man, sir. If you can 
shew cause, as why, upon a special capus, that I 
should prove my name — But, come, Timothy Twitch 
is my name. And, now you know my name, what 
have you to say to that? 

Honeywood. Nothing in the world, good Mr. Twitch, 
but that I have a favour to ask, that's all. 

Bailiff. Ay, favours are more easily asked than 
granted, as we say among us that practise the law. 
1 have taken an oath against granting favours. 
Would you have me perjure myself? 

Honeywood. But my request will come recom- 
mended in so strong a manner, as, I believe, you'll 
have no scruple (pulling out hs purse). The thing 
is only this : I believe 1 shall be able to discharge 
this trifle in tv.-o or three davs at farthest ; but as I 
would not have the affair known for the world, I have 
thoughts of keeping you, and your good friend here, 
about me, till the debt is discharged ; for which I shall 
be properly grateful. 

Bailff. Oh ! that's anothei maxum, and altogether 
withm my oath. For certain, if an honest man is to 
get any thing by a thing, there's no reason why all 
things should not be done in civility. 

Huneyuood. Doubtless, all trades must live, Mr. 
Twitch ; and yours is a necessary one. 

[Gives him money. 
Bailiff. Oh ! your honour ; I hope your honour 
takes nothing amiss as I does, as 1 does nothing but 
my duty in so doing. I'm sure no man can say I 
ever give a gentleman, that was a gentleman, ill 
usage. If I saw that a gentleman was a gentleman, 
I have taken money not to see him for ten weeks 
together. 

Honeywood, Tenderness is a virtue, Mr. Twitch. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 129 

Bailiff. Ay, sir, it's a perfect treasure. I love to 
see a gentleman with a tender heart. 1 don't know, 
but I think 1 have a tender heart nayself. If all that 
I have lost by my heart was put together, it would 
make a — but no matter for that. 

Honeyweod. Don't account it lost, Mr. Twitch. 
The ingratitude of the world can never deprive us of 
the consoious happiness of having acted with humanity 
ourselves. 

Bailiff. Humanity, sir, is a jewel. It's better than 
gold. 1 love humanity. People may say, that we 
in our way have no humanity ; but I'll shew you 
my humanity this moment. There's my follower 
here, little Flanigan, with a wife and four children — 
a guinea or two would be more to him, than twice 
as much to another. Now, as I can't shew him 
any humanity myself, I must beg leave you'll do it 
for me. 

Honeywood. I assure you, Mr. Twitch, yours is a 
most powerful recommendation. 

[Givng money to the follower. 

Bailiff. Sir, you're a gentleman. 1 see you know 
what to do with your money. But, to business, we are 
to be with you here as yoar friends, 1 suppose. But set 
in case company comes. Little Flanigan here, to be 
sure, has a good face — a very good face ; but then, he 
is a little seedy, as we say among us that practise the 
law, — not well in clothes. Smoke the pocket-holes. 

Honeyvxwd. Well, that shall be remedied without 
delay. 

Enter Servants 

Servant. Sir, Miss Bichland is below. 

Honeywood. How unlucky ! Detain her a moment. 
We must improve my good friend little Mr. Flanigan's 
appearance first. Here, let Mr. Flanigan have a suit 
of my clothes — quick — the brown and silver — Do you 
hear? 

Servant. That your honour gave away to the beg- 
ging gentleman that maket; verses, because it was as 
good as new. 

G2 



130. THE GOOD NATUIIED MAN. 

Honeywnod. The white and gold then. 

Servant. Ihat, your honour, 1 made bold to sell, 
because it was good for nothing. 

Honeywood. Well, the first that comes to hand 
then — the blue and gold. I believe Mr. Flanigan 
will look best in blue. [Exit Flanigan. 

Bailiff. Raljbit me, but little Flanigan will look 
well in any thing. Ah, if your honour knew that bit 
of flesh as well as I do, you'd be perfectly in love 
with him. There's not a prettier scout in the four 
counties after a shy-cock than he : scents like a hound 
— sticks like a weasel. He was master of the cere- 
monies to the black Queen of Morocco, when I took 
him to follow me. (^Re-enter Flanigan.) Heh ! ecod, 
I think he looks so well, that 1 don't care if I have a 
suit from the same place for myself. 

Honeywood. Well, well, I hear the lady coming. 
Dear Mr. Twitch, I beg you'll give your friend direc- 
tions not to speak. As for yourself, 1 know you will 
say nothing without being directed. 

Bailiff. Never you fear me ; I'll shew the lady that 
1 have something to say for myself as well as another. 
One man has one way of talking, and another man 
has another, that's all the difference between them. 

Entei' Miss Richland and Garnet. 

Miss Richland. You'll be surprised, sir, with thia 
visit. But you know I'm yet to thank you for choosing 
my little library. 

Honeywood. Thanks, madam, are unnecessary ; as 
it was 1 that was obliged by your commands. Chairs 
here. Two of my very good friends, Mr. Twitch and 
Mr. Flanigan. Pray, gentlemen, sit without cere- 
mony. 

Miss Richland. Who can these odd-looking men 
be? I fear it is as 1 was informed. It must be so. 

[Aside. 

Bailiff. (After a -pause.) Pretty weather; very pretty 
weather for the time of the year, madam. 



THE (iOOD-NATURED MAN. 131 

Follower. Very good circuit weather in the country. 

Honeiiwood. You officers are generally i'avourites 
among the ladies. My friends, madam, have been 
upon very disagreeable duty, 1 assure you. The fair 
should, in some measure, recompense the toils of the 
brave. 

Miss Richland. Our officers do indeed deserve every 
favour. The gentlemen are in the marine service, 1 
presume, sir? 

Honeywood. Why, madam, they do — occasionally 
serve in the Fleet, madam. A dangerous service ! 

Miss Richland. I'm told so. And 1 own it has often 
surprised me, that while we have had so many in- 
stances of bravery there, we have had so (ew of wit at 
home to praise it. 

Honeywood. I grant, madam, that our poets have 
not written as our sailors have fought ; but they have 
done all they could, and Hawke or Amherst could do 
no more. 

'Miss Richland. I'm quite displeased when I see a 
fine sul)ject spoiled by a dull writer. 

Honeywood. We should not be so severe ao-ainst 
dull writers, madam. It is ten to one but the dullest 
writer exceedb the most rigid French critic who pre- 
sumes to despise him. 

Follower. Damn the French, the parle vous, and all 
that belongs to them ! 

Miss Richland. Sir! 

Honeywood. Ha, ha, ha ! honest Mr. Flanigan. A 
true English officer, madam ; he's not contented with 
beating the French, but he will scold them too. 

Miss Richland. Yet, Mr. Honeywood, this does not 
convince me but that severity in criticism is necessary. 
It was our first adopting the severity of French taste, 
that has brought them in turn to taste us. 

Bailiff. Taste us ! By the Lord, madam, they de- 
vour us. Give Mounseers but a taste, and I'll be 
daran'd but they come in for a bellyfuU. 

Miss Richland, Very extraordinary this ! 

Follower. But very tiue. What makes the bread 



132 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

rising ? the parle vous that devour us. What makes 
the mutton tivepenoe a pound ? the parle vous that eat 
it up. What makes the beer threepence-halfpenny 
a pot 1. • 

HoneiiwQod. Ah ! the vulgar rogues ; all will be 
out. {Aside.) Right, gentlemen, very right, upon my 
word, and quite to the purpose. They draw a parallel, 
madam, between the mental tapte and that of our 
senses. We are injured as much by the French se- 
verity in the one, as by French rapacity in the other. 
Tliat's their meaning. 

Mi&s Richland. Though I don't see the force of the 
parallel, yet I'll own, that we should sometimes pardon 
books, as we do our friends, that have now and then 
agreeable absurdities to recommend them. 

Bailiff'. That's all my eye. The King only can 
pardon, as the law says : for, set in case 

Honeywood. I'm quite of your opinion, sir. I see 
the whole drift of your argument. Yes, certainly, our 
presuming to pardon any work, is arrogating a power 
that belongs to another. If all have power to con- 
demn, what writer can be free? 

Baliff. By his habus corpus. His habus corpus 
can set him free at any time : for, set in case — — 

Honeiiwiiod. I'm obliged to you, sir, for the hint. 
If, madam, as my friend observes, our laws are so 
careful of a gentleman's person, sure we ought to be 
equally careful of his dearer part, his fame. 

Follower. Ay, but if so be a man's nabb'd, you 
know 

HoneyiDood. jNIr. Flanigan, if you spoke for ever, 
you could not improve the last observation. For my 
own part, I tliink it conclusive. 

Ba'iff. As for the matter of that, mayhap 

Honeuwood, Nay, sir, give me leave, in this in- 
stance, to be positive. For where is the necessity of 
censuring works without genius, which must shortly 
sink of themselves"! what is it, but aiming an unne- 
cessary blow against a victim already under the hands 
of justice'! 



THE GOOD-NATURED M.4N. 133 

Bailiff. Justice! Oh, by the elevens! if you talk 
about justice, 1 think 1 am at home there: for, in a 
course of law 

Honeywood. My dear Mr. Twitch, I discern what 
you'd be at, perfectly ; and 1 believe the lady must be 
sensible of the art with which it is introduced. I sup- 
pose you perceive the meaning, madam, of his course 
of law. 

Miss Puchland. I protest, sir, I do not. I perceive 
only that you answer one gentleman before he has 
finished, and the other before he has well begun. 

Bailijf'. Aladam, you are a gentlewoman, and I will 
make tita matter out. This here question is about 
severity, and justice, and pardon, and the like of they. 
Now, to explain the thing 

Honeywood. Oh ! curse your explanations ! [^Ande. 

Enter Servant. 

Servant. Mr. Leontine, sir, below, desires to speak 
with you upon earnest business. 

Honeywood. That's lucky, (^fde.) Dear madam, 
you'll excuse me and my good friends here, for a few 
minutes. There are books, madam, to amuse you. 
Come, gentlemen, you know I make no ceremony v?ith 
such friends. After you, sir. Excuse me. Well, if 
I must. Dut I know your natural politeness. 

Bailiff. Before and behind, you know. 

Follower. Ay, ay, before and behind, before and 
behind. [Eieunt Honeywood, Bailiff, and Follower, 

Miss Richland. What can ail this mean. Garnet? 

Garnet, .\iean, madam! why, what should it mean, 
but what ilr. Lofty sent you here to see 1 These peo- 
ple he calls oflScers, are officers sure enough : shenfi'^s 
officers — bailiffs, madam. 

Miss Richland. Ay, it is certainly so. Well, though 
his perplexities are far from giving me pleasure, yet I 
own there is something very ridiculous in them, and a 
just punishment for hLs diisimulution. 

Garnet. And so they are : but I wonder, madam. 



134 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

thaf the lawyer you just employed to pay his debts, 
and set him free, has not done it by this time. He 
ought at least to have been here before now. But 
lawyers are always more ready to get a man into 
troubles than out of them. 



Enter Sir William. 

Sir William. For Miss Richland to undertake set- 
ting him free, I own, was quite unexpected. It has 
totally unhinged my schemes to reclaim him. Yet it 
gives me pleasure to find, that among a number of 
worthless friendships, he has made one acquisition of 
real value ; for there must be some softer passion on 
her side, that prompts this generosity. Ha! here 
before me 2 I'll endeavour to sound her afTections.— 
Madam, as I am the person that have had some de- 
mands upon the gentleman of this house, I hope you'll 
excuse me, if, before I enlarged him, I wanted to see 
yourself. 

Miss Richland. The precaution was very unneces- 
sary, sir. I suppose your wants were only such as 
my agent had power to satisfy. 

Sir William. Partly, madam. But I was also 
willing you should be fully apprized of the character 
of the gentleman you intended to serve. 

Miss Ricldand. It must come, sir, with a very ill 
grace from you. To censure it, after what you have 
done, would look like malice ; and to speak favour- 
ably of a character you have oppressed, would be 
impeaching your own. And sure, his tenderness, his 
humanity, his universal friendship, may atone for 
many faults. 

Sir William. That friendship, madam, which is 
exerted in too wide a sphere, becomes totally useless. 
Our bounty, lilce a drop of water, disappears when 
diffused too widely. They who pretend most to this 
universal benevolence, are either deceivers or dupes, — 
men who desire to cover their private ill-nature, by a. 
pretended regard for all, or men who, reasoning 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. iZa 

themselves into false feelings, are more earnest in 
pursuit of splendid, than of useful, virtues. 

Miss Richland. I am surprised, sir, to hear one 
who has probably been a gainer by the folly of others' 
so severe in his censure of it. ' 

Sir Witliain. Whatever I may have gained by 
folly, madam, you see I am willing to prevent your 
losmg by it. 

Miss Richland. Your cares for me, sir, are unneces- 
sary, I always suspect those services which are denied 
where they are wanted, and offered, perhaps, in hopes 
of a refusal. No, sir, my directions have been given, 
and i msist upon their being complied with. 

Sir William. Thou amiable woma-n ! I can ho 
longer contam the expressions of m.y giatitude— my 
pleasure. You see before you one who has been 
equally careful of his interest ; one, who has for some 
time been a concealed spectator of his follies, and 
only punished in hopes to reclaim them,— his uncle' 
Miss Richland. Sir William Honeywood ! You 
amaze me. How shall I conceal ray confusion ■> I 
tear, sir, you'll think I have been too forward in mv 

services. I confess I ^ 

Sir William. Don't make any apologies, madam. 
1 only find jnyself unable to repay the obligation. 
And yet, i have been trying my interest of late to 
serve you. Having learned, madam, that you had 
some demands upon Government, I have, though un- 
asked, been your solicitor there. 

_ Miss Richland. Sir, I'm infinitely obliged to your 
intentions. But my gviardian has employed another 
gentleman, who assures him of success 

• ■^"' ''^''''«™' Who, the important little man that 
visits here ? Trust me, madam, he's quite contempti- 
ble a n>ong men m power, and utterly unable to serve 
you. Mr. Lofty s promises are much better known 
to people fashion than his person, I assure you. 

Miss Richland. How have we been deceived ' As 
sure as can be, here he comes. 

Sir William. Does he 2 Remember I'm to con- 



IS6 THE GOOD-NATUKED MAN. 

tinue unknown. ]My return to England has not as yet 
been made public. With what impudence he enters! 

Enter ],cifty. 

Lofty. Let the chariot — let my chariot drive off: 
I'll visit to his Grace's in a chair. Miss Richland 
here before me "i Punctual, as usual, to the calls of 
humanity. I'm very sorry, madam, things of this 
kind should happen, especially to a man I have shewn 
every where, and carried amongst us as a particular 
acquaintance. 

Miss Ptichland. I find, sir, you have the art of 
making the misfortunes of others your own. 

Lofty. My dear madam, what can a private man 
like me do? One man can't do every thing; and 
then, I do so much in this way every day. Let me 
see — something considerable might be done for him 
by subscription ; it could not fail if I carried the list. 
I'll undertake to set down a brace of dukes, two 
dozen lords, and half the Lower House, at my own 
peril. 

SirWilliam. And, after all, it's more than proba- 
ble, sir, he might reject the offer of suck powerful 
patronage. 

Lofty. Then, madam, what can we do 1 You 
know I never make promises. In truth, I once or 
twice tried to do something with him in the vvay of 
business ; but as I often told his uncle, Sir William 
Honeyvvood, the man was utterly impracticable. 

Sir Wiliiam. His uncle ! then that gentleman, I 
suppose, is a particular friend of yours. 

Lofty. Meaning me, sir? — Yes, madam, as. I often 
said. My dear Sir William, you are sensible I would 
do any thing, as far as my poor interest goes, to serve 
your family : but what can be done 1 there's no pro- 
curing first-rate places for ninth-rate abilities. 

Miss Richland. I have heard of Sir William Honey- 
wood ; he's abroad in employment : he confided io 
your judgment, I suppose 1 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. Igf 

Lofty. Why, yes, madam, I believe Sir William 
had some reason to confide in my judgment — one 
little rea^.on, perhaps. 

Miss^Richland. Pray, sir what was it 1 

Lofty. Why, madam — but let it go no farther — it 
was 1 procured him his place. 

Sir William. Did you, sir? 

Lofty. Either you or I, sir. 

Miss Richland. This, Mr. Lofty, was very kind 
indeed. 

Lofty. I did love him, to be sure; he had some 
amusing qualities ; no man was iitter to be a toast- 
master to a club, or had a better head. 

Miss Richland. A better head 1 

Lofty. Ay, at a bottle. To be sure he was as dull 
as a choice spirit; but hang it, he was grateful, very 
grateful ; and gratitude hides a multitude of faults. 

Sir Wiltiam. He might have reason, perhaps. His 
place is pretty considerable, I'm told. 

Lofty. A trifle, a mere trifle among us men of 
business. The truth is, he wanted dignity to fill up a 
greater. 

Sir William. Dignity of person do you mean, sir? 
I'm told he's much about my size and figure, sir 1 

Lofty. Ay, tall enough for a marching regiment ; 
but then he wanted a something — a consequence of 
form — a kind of a — I believe the lady perceives my 
meaning. 

Miss Richland. Oh, perfectly! you courtiers can 
do any thing, I see. 

Lofty. My dear madam, all this is but a mere ex- 
change ; we do greater things for one another every 
day. Why, as thus, now : Let me suppose you the 
First Lord of the Treasury ; you have an employment 
in you that I want — 1 have a place in me that you 
want; do me here, do you there: interest of both 
sides, few words, flat, done and done, and it's over. 

SirWitUam. A thought strikes me. (^Aside.) Now 
you mention Sir William Honeywood, madam, and 
as he seems, sir, an acquaintance of yours, you'l.. be 



13S 



TilE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 



glad to hear he is arrived from Italy : I had it from a 
friend who knows him as well as he does me, and you 
may depend on my information. 

Lofty. (Aside.) The devil he is ! If I had known 
that, we should not have been quite so well ac- 
quainted. 

Sir William. He is certainly returned ; and as this 
gentleman is a friend of yours, he can be of signal 
service to us, by introducing me to him : there are 
some papers relative to your affairs that require de- 
spatch, and his inspection. 

Miss Richland. This gentleman, Mr. Lofty, is a 
person employed in my affairs — I know you'll serve us. 

Lofty. My dear madam, I live but to serve you. 
Sir William shall even wait upon him, if you think 
proper to command it. 

Sir William. That would be quite unnecessary. 

Lofty. Well, we must introduce you then. Call 
upon me — let me see — ay, in two days. 

Sir William. Now, or the opportunity will be lost 
for ever. 

Lofty. Well, if it must be now, now let it be.; but, 
damn it, that's unfortunate : My Lord Grig's cursed 
Pensacola business comes on this very hour, and I'm 
engaged to attend — another time 

Sir Wiliiam. A short letter to Sir William will do. 

Lofty. You shall have it ; yet, in my opinion, a 
letter is a very bad way of going to work j face to 
face, that's my way. 

Sir William. The letter, sir, will do quite as well. 

Lofty. Zounds ! sir, do you pretend to direct me 1 
direct me in the business of office ] Do you know 
me, sir ? who am 1 1 

Miss Richland. Dear Mr. Lofty, this request is not 
so much his as mine; if my commands — but you 
despise my power. 

Lofty. Delicate creature ! — your commands could 
even control a debate at midnight : to a power so 
constitutional, I am all obedience and tranquillity. 
He shall have a letter : where is my secretary t 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 139 

Dubardieu ! And yet, I protest, I don't like this way 
of doing business. I think if I first spoke to Sir 
William — but you will have it so. 

[Exit with Miss Richland, 
Sir William. (Alone.) Ha ! ha ! ha ! This too is 
one of my nephew's hopeful associates. O vanity ! 
thou constant deceiver, how do all thy efforts to exalt 
serve but to sink us ! Thy false cc<5ourings, like those 
employed to heighten beauty, only seem to mend 
that bloom which they contribute to destroy. I'm 
not displeased at this interview : exposing this fellow's 
mipudence to the contempt it deserves, may be of use 
to my design ; at least, if he can reflect, it will be of 
use to himself. 

Enter Jarvis. 

How now, Jarvis, where 's your master, my nephew ? 

Jarvis. At his wit's end, I believe : he's scarce got- 
ten out of one scrape, but he's running his head into 
another. 

Sir William. How sol 

Jarvis. The house has but just been cleared ot the 
bailiffs, and now he's again engaging, tooth and nail, 
in assisting old Croaker's son to patch up a clandestine 
match with the young lady that passes in the house for 
his sister. 

Sir William. Ever busy to serve others. 

Jarvis. Ay, any body but himself. The young cou- 
ple, it seems, are just setting out for Scotland ; and he 
supplies them with money for the journey. 

Sir William. Money ! how is he able to supply 
others, who has scarce any for himself? 

Jarvis. Why, there it is : he has no money, that's 
true ; but then, as he never said No to any request in 
his life, he has given them a bill, drawn by a friend 
of his upon a merchant in the city, which I am to get 
changed ; for you must know that I am to go with 
*.hem to Scotland myself. 

Sir William. How 1 

Jantis. It seems the young gentleman is obliged to 



140 THE GOOD NATURED MAN. 

take a different road from his mistress, as he is to call 
upon an uncle of his that lives out of the way, in 
order to prepare a place for their reception when tliey 
return ; so they have borrowed me from my master, 
as the properest person to attend the young lady down. 

Sir WiUiajii. To the land of matrimony ! A pleasant 
journey, Jarvis. 

Jarvis. Ay, but I'm only to have all the fatigues on't. 

Sir William. Well, it may be shorter, and less fa- 
tiguing, than you imagine. I know but too much of 
the yonng lady's family and connexions, whom I have 
seen abroad. I have also discovered that Miss Rich- 
land is not indifferent to mj' thoughtless nephew ; and 
will end-eavour, though I fear in vain, to establish that 
connexion. But come, the letter I wait for must be 
almost finished ; I'll let you farther into my intentions 
in the next room, [Eieunt. 



ACT FOURTH. 

•Scerae— croaker's house. 

Enter Lofty, 

Lofty. Well, sure the devil's in me of late, for run 
ning my head into such defiles, as nothing but a ge- 
nius like my own could draw me from. I was formerly 
contented to husband out my places and pensions with 
some degree of frugality ; birt curse it, of late I have 
given away the whole Court Register in less time than 
they could print the title-page : yet, hang it, why scru- 
ple a lie or two to come at a fine girl, when 1 every 
day tell a thousand for nothing? Ha! Honeywood 
here before me. Could Miss Richland have set him 
at liberty 1 

Enter Honeywood. 

Mr. Honeywood, I'm glad to see you abroad again, 
find my concurrence was not necessary in ysur un« 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 141 

fortunate affairs. I had put things in a train to do 
your business ; but it is not for me to say what I in- 
tended doing. 

Honeywood. It was unfortunate, indeed, sir. But 
what adds to my uneasiness is, that while you seem to 
be acquainted with my misfortune, I myself continue 
still a stranger to my benefactor. 

Lofty. How ! not know the friend that served you 1 

Honeywood. Can't guess at the person. 

Lofty. Inquiret * 

Honeywood, I have ; but all I can learn is, that he 
chooses to remain concealed, and that all inquiry must 
be fruitless. 

Lnfty. Must be fruitless? 

Honeywood. Aljsolutely fruitless. 

Lofty. Sure of that "i 

Honeywood. Very sure. 

Lofty. Then I'll be damn'd if you shall ever know 
it from me. 

Honeywood. How, sir? 

Lofty. I suppose now, Mr. Honeywood, you think 
my rent-roll very considerable, and that I have vast 
sums of money to throw away ; I know you do. The 
world, to be sure, says such things of me. 

Honeywood. The world, by what I learn, is no 
stranger to your generosity. But where does this tend? 

Lofty. To nothing — nothing in the world. The 
town, to be sure, when it makes such a thing as me 
the subject of conversation, has asserted, that I never 
yet patronized a man of merit„ 

Honeywood. I have heard instances to the contrary, 
even from yourself. 

Lojty. Yes, Honeywood ; and there are instances 
to the contrary, that you shall never hear from myself. 

Honeywood. Ha ! dear sir, permit me to ask you 
but one question. 

Lofty. Sir, ask me no questions ; I say, sir, ask me 
no questions ; I'll be damn'd if I answer them. 

Honeywood. I will ask no farther. My friend ! my 
benefactor ! it is, it must be here, that 1 am indebted 



142 THE GOOD-NAfURED MAN. 

for freedom— fo!- lionour. Yes, thou worthiest of men, 

from the beginning 1 suspected it, but was afraid to 

return thanks ; wiiich, if undeserved, might seem 

reproaches. 

Lofty. I protest I do not understand all this, Mr. 
Honey wood ; you treat me very cavalierly. I do 
assure you, sir — Blood, sir, can't a man be permitted 
to_ enjoy the luxury of his own feelings, without all 
this parade "! 

Noneywood. Nay, do not attempt to conceal an 
action that adds to your honour. Your looks, your 
air, your manner, all confess it. 

Lofty. Confess it, sir ! torture itself, sir, shall never 
bring me to confess it. Mr. Honeywood, I have 
admitted you upon terms of friendship. Don't let us 
fall out ; make me happy, and let this be buried in 
oblivion. You kru)w I hate ostentation ; you know I 
do. Come, come, Honeywood, you know I always 
loved to be a friend, and not a patron. I beg this 
may make no kind of distance between us. Come, 
come, you and I must be more familiar — indeed we 
must. 

_ Honeywood. Heavens ! Can I ever repay such 
friendship ? Is there any way 1 Thou best of men, 
can I ever return the obligation ■! 

Lofty. A bagatelle, a mere bagatelle ! But I see 
your heart is labouring to be grateful. You shall be 
grateful. It would be cruel to disappoint you. 

Honeywood. How ? teach me the manner. Is there 
any way ? 

Lofty. From this moment you're mine. Yes, my 
friend, you shall know it — I'm in love. 

Honeywood. And can I assist you 1 . 

Lojty. Nobody so well. 

Honeyivood. In what manner ? I'm all impatience. 

Lofty. You shall make love for me. 

Honeywood. And to whom shall I speak in your 
favour 1 

Lofty. To a lady with whom you have great in- 
terest, I assure you — Miss Richland. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN, 143 

Honeywood. Miss Richland! 

Lefty. Yes, Miss Richland. She has struck the 
blow up to the hilt in my bosom, by Jupiter ! 

Doneywood' Heavens ! was ever any thing more 
unfortunate 1 It is too much to be endured. 

Lofty. Unfortunate, indeed ! And yet I can endure 
it, till you have opened the affair to her for me. Be- 
tween ourselves, I think she likes me. I'm not apt 
to boast, but I think she does. 

Doneywood. Indeed ! But do you know the person 
you apply to ? 

Lofty. Yes, I know you are her friend and mine : 
that's enough. To you, therefore, I commit the suc- 
cess of my passion. I'll say no more, let friendship 
do the rest. I have only to add, that if at any time my 
little interest can be of service — but, hang it, I'll make 
no premises : you know my interest is yours at any 
tinie. No apologies, my friend, I'll not be answered ; 
it shall be so. [Exit. 

Doneywood. Open, generous, unsuspecting man 1 
He little thinks that I love her too ; and with such an 
ardent passion 1 But then it was ever but a vain and 
hopeless one ; my torment, my persecution ! What 
shall I do ? Love, friendship ; a hopeless passion, a 
deserving friend ! Love that has been my tormentor ; 
a friend, that has perhaps distressed himself to serve 
me. It shall be so. Yes, I will discard the fondlino- 
hope from my bosom; and exert all my influence in 
his favour. And yet to see her in the possession of 
another ! — Insupportable ! But then to betray a gene- 
rous, trusting friend ! — Worse, worse ! Yes, I'm 
resolved. Let me but be the instrument of their 
happiness, and then quit a country, where I must for 
ever despair of finding my own. [Exit. 

Enter Olivia and Garnet, who carries a milliner's box. 

Olivia. Dear me, I wish this journey were over. 
No news of Jarvis yet? I believe the old peevish 
creature delays purely to vex me. 



144 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Garnet. Why, to be sure, madam, I did hear him 
say, a little snubbing before marriage would teach 
you to bear it the better afterwards. 

Olivia. To be gone a full hour, though he had only 
to g;et a bill changed in the city ! How provoking ! 

Garnet. I'll lay my life, Mr. Leontine, that had 
twice as much to do, is setting off by this time from 
his inn : and here you are left behind. 

Olivia, Well, let us be prepared for his coming, 
however. Are you sure you have omitted nothing, 
Garnet! 

Garnet. Not a stick, madam ; all's here. Yet I 
wish you could fake the white and silver to be mar- 
ried in. It's the worst luck in the world in any thing 
but white. I knew one Bett Stubbs of our town, 
that was married in red ; and as sure as eggs is eggs, 
the bridegroom and she had a miff before morning. 

Olivia. No matter, I'm ail impatience till we are 
out of the house. 

Garnet, Bless me, madam, I had almost forgot the 
wedding ring! The sweet little thing. I don't think 
it would go on my little finger. And what if I put 
in a gentleman's night-cap, in case of necessity, 
madam 1 — But here's Jarvis. 

Enter Jarvis. 

Olivia. O Jarvis, are you come at last ! We have 
been ready this half hour. Now let's be going. Let 
us fly! 

Jarvis. Ay, to Jericho ; for we shall have no going 
to Scotland this bout, I fancy. 

Olivia. How! what's the matter? 

Jarvis. Money, money is the matter, madam. We 
have got no money. What the plague do you send 
me of your fool's errand for 1 My master's bill upon 
the city is not worth a rush. Here it is ; Mrs. Gar- 
net may pin up her hair with it. 

Olivia. Undone ! How could Honeywood serve us 
so t What shall we do ■? Can't we go without it ? 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 145 

Jams. Go to Scotland without money ! To Scot- 
land without money ! Lord ! how some people under- 
stand geography 1 We might as well set sail for 
Patagonia upon a cork-jacket. 

Olivia. Such a disappointment! What a base in- 
sincere man was your master, to serve us in this man- 
ner ! Is this his good-nature 1 

Jarvis. Nay, don't talk ill of my master, madam ; 
I won't bear to hear any body talk ill of him but 
myself. 

Garnet. Bless us ! now I think on't, madam, you 
need not be under any uneasiness: I saw Mr. Leon- 
tine receive forty guineas from his father just before 
he set out, and he can't yet have left the inn. A 
short letter will reach him there. 

Olivia. Well remembered. Garnet; I'll write im- 
mediately. How's this? Bless me, my hand trembles 
so, I can't write a word. Do you write.. Garnet; 
and, upon second thought, it will be better from you. 
Garnet. Truly, madam, I write and indite but 
poorly. I never was cute at my learning. But I'll 
do what I ca-n to please you. Let me see. All out 
of m,y own head, 1 suppose 1 
Olivia. Whatever you please. 
Garnet. (Writing.) 'Muster Croaker' — Twenty 
guineas, madam? 

Olivia. Ay, twenty will do. 

Garnet. ' At the bar of the Talbot till called for. — 
Expedition — Will be blown up— All of a flame — 
Quick despatch — Cupid, the little god of love.' — I 
conclude it, madam, with Cupid : I love to see a 
love-letter end like poetry. 

^ Olivia. Well, well, what you please, any thing. 
But hov/ shall we send it ? 1 can trust none of the 
servants of this family. 

Garnet. Odso, madam, Mr. Honeywood's butler is 
in the next room : he's a dear, sweet man ; he'll do 
any thing for me. 

Jarvis. He ! the dog, he'll certainly commit some 
blunder. He's drunk and sober ten times a-dav. 
H ' ^ 



14S THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Oliv'm. No matter. Fly Garnet: any body wa 
can trust will do. [Exit Garnet.'] Well, jarvis, now 
we can have nothing more to interrupt us ; you may 
take up the things, and carry them on to t-he inn. 
Have you no hands, Jarvisl 

Jarvis. Soft and fair, young lady. You that are 
going to be married think things can never be done 
Lo fast; but vv-e, that are old, and know what we are 
about, must elope methodically, madam. 

Olivia. Well, sure, if my indiscretions were to be 
done over again • 

Jarvis. Jiy life for it, you would do them ten times 
over 

Olivia. Why will you talk so 1 If you knew how 
unhappy they make me 

Jarvis. Very unhappy, no doubt : I was once just 
as unhappy when 1 was going to be married myself. 
I'll tell you a story about that 

Olivia. A story'l when I am all impatience to be 
away. Was there ever such a dilatory creature ! 

Jarvis. Well, madam, if we must march, why we 
will march, that's all. Though, odds-bobs, we have 
still forgot one thing we should never travel without 

a case of good razors, and a box of shaving powder. 

But no matter, I believe we shall be pretty well 

shaved by the way. [Goiwg. 

Enter Garnet. 

Garnet. Undone, undone, madam. Ah, Mr. Jar- 
vis, you said right enough. As sure as death, ^Mr. 
Honeywood's rogue of a drunken butler dropped the 
letter before he went ten yards from the door. 
There's old Croaker has just picked it up, and is this 
moment reading it to himself in the hall. 

Olivia. Unfortunate ! we shall be discovered. 

Garnet. No, madam ; don't be uneasy, he can 
make neither head nor tail of it. To be sure, he looks 
as if he was broke loose from Bedlam, about it, but 
he can't find what it means for all that. O lud, he 
IS coming this way all in the horrors ! 



THE GOOD-NATURRD MAN. 



147 

Oliviii Then let us leave the house this iustant. 
for fear he should ask farther questions. In the mean 
;i::;rGavnet. do you write and send ofF jus^^such 
another. '- 

Enter Croaker. 
Croaher. Death and destruction ! Are all the hoj 
rors of air, fire, and water, to be levelled only at me? 
Am I only to be singled out for gunpowaer plots, 
combustibles, and conflagrations? Here it is-An 
incendiary letter dropped at my door. 1o Mustei 
Croaker, ^these with sjeed,' Ay, ay pi am enoug^. 
the direction : all in the genuine >"cendmry spelhng, 
and as cramp as the devd. ' With speed. Oh, con- 
found your ipeed! But let me read it once ir.o e. 
CEeads) ' Muster Croaker, as sone as jo^^e see this 
Isve tvventy gunnes at the bar of the ^alhoot tell 
caled for, or yowe and yower experetioti will be al 
blown u^.' Ah, but too plain! Blood and gun- 
powder in every line of it. Blown up murderous 
doo- 1 All blown up 1 Heavens ! what have i anu 
my%oor family done, to be all blown up 1 (Reads) 
« Our pockets are low, and money we must have. 
Av there's the reason ; they'll blow us up, because 
they have got low pockets. {Reads) 'It is but a 
short time you have to consider ; for if this takes 
wind, the house will quickly be all of a flame. Inhu- 
man monsters ! blow us up, and then burn us ^ i he 
earthquake at Lisbon was but a bonfire toil, {heads) 
'Make quick despatch, and so no more at present. 
But may Cupid, the little god of love, go with you 
wherever you go.' The little god of love ! Cupid, 
the little god of love, go with me !— 6o you to ihe 
devil, you and your little Cupid together. Im so 
fricrhtened. I scarce know whether I sit, stand, or go. 
Pe°rhaps this moment I'm treading on lighted matches, 
blazing brimstone, and barrels of gunpowder. Ihey 
are preparing to blow me up into the clouds. Murder 
We shall be all burnt ia our beds; we shall bo all 
burnt in our beds ! 



148 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Enter Miss Richland. 

Miis Richland. Lord, sir, what's the matter? 

Croaker. Murder's the matter. We shall be all 
blown up in our beds before morning'. 

Miss Richland. I iiope not, sir. 

Croaker. What signifies what you hope, madam, 
when I have a certificate of it here in my hand 1 
Will nothing alarm my familyl Sleeping and eating 
— sleeping and eating is the only work from morn- 
ing till night in my house. My insensible crew 
could sleep though rocked by an earthquake, and 
fry beef-steaks at a volcano. 

Miss Richland. But, sir, you have alarmed them so 
often already ; we have nothing but earthquakes, 
famines, plagues, and mad dogs from year's end to 
year's end. You remember, sir, it is not above a 
month ago, you assured us of a conspiracj' among 
the bakers to poison us in our bread ; and so kept the 
whole family a week upon potatoes. 

Ci-oaker. And potatoes were too good for them. 
But why do I stand talking here with a girl, when I 
should be facing the enemy without 1 Here, John, 
Nicodemus, search the house. Look into the cellars, 
to see if there be any combustibles below ; and above, 
in the apartments, th>at no matches be thrown in at 
the windows. Let all the fires be put out, an,d let 
the engine be drawn out in the yard, to play upon 
the house in case of necessity. [Exit. 

Miss Richland. {Alone.) What can he mean by 
all this -7 Yet why should I inquire, when he alarms 
us in this manner almost every day. But Honeywood 
has desired an interview with me in private. What 
can he mean 1 or rather, what means this palpitation 
at his approach"! It is the first time he ever shewed 
any thing in his conduct that seemed particular. Sure 
he cannot mean to — but he's here. 



THK GOOD-NATURED MAN. 149 

Enter Honeywood, 

Honeywood. I presumed to solicit this interview, 
madam, before I left town, to be permitted 

Miss Richland. Indeed! leaving town, sir ? 

Honeywood. Yes, madam, perhaps the kingdom. 
I have presumed, I say, to desire the favour of this 
interview, in order to disclose something which our 
long friendship prompts. And yet my fears 

Miss Richkind. His fears ! what are his fears to 
mine! (Aside.) We have, indeed, been long ac- 
quainted, sir; very long. If I remember, our first 
meeting was at the French ambassador's. Do you 
recollect how you were pleased to rally me upon my 
complexion there 1 

Honeywood. Perfectly, madam : I presumed to 
reprove you for painting ; but your warmer blushes 
soon convinced the company that the colouring was 
all from nature. 

Miss Richland. And yet you only meant it in your 
good-natured way, to make me pay a compliment to 
myself. In the same manner, you danced that night 
with the most awkward woman in company, because 
you saw nobody else would take her out. 

Honeywood. Yes ; and was rewarded the next 
night by dancing with the finest woman in company, 
whom every body wished to take out. 

Miss Richland. Well, sir, if you thought so then, I 
fear your judgment has since corrected the errors of a 
first impression. We generally shew to most ad- 
vantage at first. Our sex are like poor tradesmen, 
that put all their best goods to be seen at the win- 
dows. 

Honeywood. The first impression, madam, did in- 
deed deceive me. I expected to find a woman with 
all the faults of conscious flattered beauty : I ex- 
pected to find her vain and insolent. But every day 
has since taught me, that it is possible to possess 
sense without pride, and beauty without affectation. 

Miss Richland. This, eir, is a style very unusual 



150 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

with Mr. Honeywood ; and I should be glad to know 
why he thus attempts to increase that vanity, which 
his own lessons have taught me to despise. 

Honeywood. I ask pardon, madam. Yet, from our 
long friendship, I presumed I might have some right 
to offer, without offence, what you may refuse without 
offending. 

Miss Richland. Sir ! I beg you'd reflect : though I 
fear, I shall scarce have any power to refuse a request 
of yours, yet you may be precipitate : consider, sir. 

Honeywood. I own my rashness ; but as I plead 
the cause of friendship, of one who loves — don't be 
alarm.ed, madam — who loves you with the most 
ardent passion, whose vifhole happiness is placed in 
you 

Miss Riehiand. I fear, sir, I shall never find whom 
you mean, by this description of him. 

Honeywood. Ah, madam, it but too plainly points 
him out ! though he should be too humble himself to 
urge his pretensions, or you too modest to understand 
them. 

Miss Richland, Well, it would be affectation any 
longer to pretend ignorance ; and I will own, sir, I 
have long been prejudiced in his favour. It was but 
natural to wish to make his heart mine, as he seemed 
himself ignorant of its value. 

Honeywood. I see she always loved him. (^Aside.) 
I find, madam, j'ou're already sensible of his wbrth, 
his passion. How happy is my friend to be the 
favourite of one with such sense to distinguish merit, 
ind such beauty to reward it ! 

Miss Richland. Your friend, sir ! what friend? 

Honeywood. My best friend — my friend Mr. Lofty, 
madam. 

Miss Richlandr He, sir ■? 

Honeywood. Yes, he, madam. He is, indeed, what 
your warmest wishes might have formed him ; and to 
his other qualities he adds that of the most passionate 
regard for you. 

Miss Richland. Amazement .' — No more of this, I 
beg you, sir. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 151 

Honeywood. I see your confusion, madam, and know 
how to interpret it. And, since I so plainly read 
the language of your heart, shall I make my friend 
happy, by communicating your sentiments ? 

Miss Richland. By no means. 

Honeywood, Excuse me, I must ; I know you de- 
sire it. 

Miss r.hland. Mr. Honeywood, let me tell you, 
that you wrong my sentiments and yourself. When 
I first applied to your friendship, I expected advice 
and assistance ; but now, sir, I see that it is in vain to 
expect happiness from him, who has been so bad an 
economist of his own ; and that I must disclaim his 
friendship who ceases to be a friend to himself. 

[Exit. 

Honeywood. How is this? she has confessed she 
loved him, and yet she seemed to part in displeasure. 
Can I have done any thing to reproach myself with 1 
No ! I believe not : yet, after all, these things should 
not be done by a third person : I should have spared 
her confusion. ]My friendship carried me a little 
too far. 

Fmter Croaker, with the letter in his hand, and 
Mrs. Croaker. 

Mrs. Croaker. Ha .' ha ! ha ! And so, my dear, it's 
your supreme wish that 1 should be quite wretched 
upon this occasion ? Ha ! ha ! 

Croaker. (^Mimicking.) Ha ! ha ! ha ! And so, my 
dear, it's your supreme pleasure to give me no better 
consolation? 

Mrs. Croaker. Positively, my dear; what is this in- 
cendiary stuff and trumpery to me ? Our house 
may travel through the air, like the house of Loretto, 
for aught I care, if I'm to be miserable in it. 

Croaker. Would to heaven it were converted into 
a house of correction for your benefit. Have we not 
every thing to alarm us ? Perhaps this very moment 
the tragedy is beginning. 

Mrs. Croaker. Then let us reserve our distress till 



i52 THE GOOD-NATURED. MAN. 

the rising of the curtain, or give them the money 
they want, and have done with them. 

Croaker. Give them my money ! — and pray what 
right have they to my money. 

Mrs, Croaker. And pray what right, then, have 
you to my good-humour 1 

Croaker. And so your good-humour advises me to 
part with my money 1 Why, then, to tell your good- 
humour a piece of my mind, I'd sooner part with my 
wife. Here's Mr. Honey wood, see what he'll say to it. 
My dear Honeywood, look at this incendiary letter 
dropped at my door. It will freeze you with terror ; 
and yet lovey can read it — can read it, and laugh. 

Mrs. Croaker. Yes, and so will Mr. Honeywood. 

Croaker, If he does, I'll S'ufTer to be hanged the 
next minute in the rogue's place, that's all. 

Mrs. Croaker. ' Speak, Mr. Honeywood ; is there 
any thing more foolish than my husband's fright upon 
this occasion.? 

Honeywood. It would not become me to decide, 
madam ; but, doubtless, the greatness of his terrors 
now will but invite them to renew their viliany 
another time. 

Mrs. Croaker. I told you, he'd be of my opinion. 

Croaker. How, sir ! Do you maintain that I should 
lie down under such an injury, and shew, neither by 
my fears nor complaints, that I have something of 
the spirit of a man in me 1 

Honeywood. Pardon me, sir. You ought to make 
the loudest complaints, if you desire redress. The 
surest way to have redress is to be earnest in the pur- 
suit of it. 

Croaker. Ay, whose opinion is he of now 1 

Mrs. Croaker. But don't you think that laughing 
off our fears is the best way 1 

Honeywood. What is the best, madam, few can 
say ; but I'll maintain it to be a very wise way. 

Croaker. But we're talking of the best Surely the 
best way is to face the enemy in the field, and not 
ivait till he plunders us in our very bed-chamoer. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 153 

Honeywood. Why, sir, as to the best, that — that's a 
verv wise way too. 

Mrs. Croaker. But can any thing be more absurd, 
than to double our distresses by our apprehensions, 
and put it in the power of every low fellow, that can 
scrawl ten words of wretched spelling, to torment us 1 

Honeywood. Without doubt, nothing more absurd. 

Croaker. How ! would it not be more absurd to 
despise the rattle till we are bit by the snake'! 

HoneywMd. Without doubt, perfectly absurd. 

Croaker. Then you are of my opinion. 

Honeywood. Entirely. 

Mrs. Croaker. And you reject mine'? 

Honeywood. Heavens forbid, madam! No, sure 
no reasoning can be more just than yours. We ought 
certainly to despise malice, if we cannot oppose it, and 
not make the incendiary's pen as fatal to our repose 
as the highwayman's pistol. • ■ , ~ 

Mrs. Croaker. Oh, then you think I m quite right 1 

Honeywood. Perfectly right. , , , , 

Croaker. A plague of plagues, we can t be ooth 
rio-ht. I ought to be sorry, or I ought to be glad. 
My hat must be on ray head, or my hat must be off. 

Mrs. Croaker. Certainly, in two opposite opinions, 
if one be perfectly reasonable, the other can't be per- 
fectly right. , , , • 1^ 

Honevwood. And why may not both be right, 
madam \ Mr. Croaker in earnestly seeking redress, 
and you in waiting the event with good-humour'! 
Pray, let me see the letter again. I have it. This 
letter requires twen-ty guineas to be left at the bar ot 
the Talbot Inn. If it be indeed an incendiary letter, 
what if you and I, sir, go there ; and when the wrUer 
comes to be paid his expected booty, seize him \ 

Croaker. IMy dear friend, it's the very thing-tlie 
very thing. While I walk by the door, you shall 
plant yourself in ambush near the bar ; burst out 
upon the miscreant like a masked battery ; extort a 
confession at once, and so hang him up by surprise. 
H 2 



154 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN, 



Honeywood. Yes, but I would not choose to exer- 
cise too much severity. It is my maxim, sir, that 
crimes generally punish themselves. 

Croaker. Well, but we may upbraid him a little, 
1 suppose 7 (Ironically.) 

Honeywood. Ay, but not punish him too rigidly. 

Croaker. Well, well, leave that to my own bene- 
volence. 

Honeywood. Well, I do ; but remember that uni- 
versal benevolence is the first law of nature. 

lExeunt Honeywood and Mrs. Croal<er. 

Croaker. Yes ; and my universal benevolence will 
hang the dog, if he had as many necks as a hydra. 



ACT FIFTH. 
Scene — ^an inn. 

Enter Olivia and Jaitis. 

Olivia. Well, we have got safe to the inn, however. 
Now, if the post-chaise were ready 

Jarvis. The horses are just finishing their oats ; and, 
as they are not going to be married, they choose to 
take their own time. 

Olivia. You are for ever giving wrong motives to 
my impatience. 

Jarvis. Be as impatient as you will, the horses must 
take their own time ; besides, you don't consider we 
have got no answer from our fellow-traveller yet. If 
we hear nothing from Mr. Leontine, we have only 
one way left us. 

Olivia. What way? 

Jarvis. The way home again. 

Olivia. Not so. I have made a resolution to go 
(ini nothing shall induce me to break it. 

Jarvis. Ay ; resolutions are well kept, when they 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 155 

jump with inclination. However, I'll go hasten things 
without. And I'll call, too, at the bar to see if any- 
thing should be left for us there. Don't be in such 
a plaguy hurry, madam, and we shall go the faster, 
I promise you. [Exit Jarvls. 

Enter Landlady. 

Landlady. What! Solomon, why don't you move? 
Pipes and tobacco for the Lamb there. Will nobody 
answer l To the Dolphin ; quick. The Angel has 
been outrageous this half hour. Did your ladyship 
call, madam 1 

Olivia. No, madam. 

Landlady, I find as you are for Scotland, madam 
— but that's no business of mine ; married, or not 
married, I ask no questions. To be sure, we had a 
sweet little couple set off from this two days ago for 
the same place. The gentleman, for a tailor, was, to 
be sure, as fine a spoken tailor as ever"blew froth 
from a full pot. And the young lady so bashful, it 
was near half an hour before we could get her to 
finish a pint of raspberry between us. 

Olivia. But this gentleman and I are not going to 
be married, I ass-ure you. 

Landlady. May be not. That's no business of 
mine : for certain Scotch marriages seldom turn out 
well. There was, of my own knowledge. Miss Mac- 
fag, that married her father's footman. Alack-a-day, 
she and her husband soon parted, and now keep se- 
parate c-ellars in Hedge-lane. 

Olivia. (Aside.') A very pretty picture of what lies 
before me ! 

Enter Leontine. 

Leontine. My dear Olivia, my anxiety, till you 
were out of danger, was too great to be resisted. I 
"ould not help coming to see you set out, though it 
exposes us to a discovery. 

Olivia. May every thing you do prove as fortunate. 
Indeed, Leontine, we have been most cruelly disap« 



15(5 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

pointed. Mr. Honeywood's bill upon the city has, it 
seems, been protested, and we have been utterly at a 
loss how to proceed. 

Leondne. How ! an offer of his own too ! Sure 
he could not mean to deceive us 1 

Olivia. Depend upon his sincerity ; he only mis- 
took the desire for the power of serving- us. But let 
us think no more of it. I believe the post-chaise is 
ready by this. 

Landlady. Not quite yet ; and begging your lady- 
ship's pardon, I don't think your ladyship quite ready 
for the post-chaise. The north road is a cold place, 
madam. I have a drop in the house of as pretty rasp- 
berry as ever was tipt over tongue. Just a thimble- 
full to keep the wind off your stomach. To be sure, 
the last couple we had here, they said it was a per- 
fect nosegay. Ecod, I sent them both away as good- 
natured— Up went the blinds, round went the wheels, 
and Drive away, post-boy ! was the word. 

Enter Croaker. 

Croalcer. Well, while my friend Honeywood is 
upon tlie post of danger at the bar, it must be my 
business to have an eye about me here. I think I 
know an incendiary's look ; for wherever the devil 
makes a purchase he never fails to set his mark. Ha ! 
who have we here t JMy son and daughter ! What 
can they be doing herel 

Landlady. I tell you, madam, it will do you good ; 
I think 1 know by this time what's good for tiie north 
road. It's a raw night, madam. Sii' — 

Leontiue. Not a drop more, good madam. I should 
now take it as a greater favour, if you hasten the 
horses, for I am afraid to be seen myself. 

Landlady. That shall be done. Wha, Solomon! 
are you all dead there 1 Wha, Solomon, I say ! 

[Exit, liawliiig. 

Olivia. Well, I dread lest an expedition begun ia 
fear, should end in repentance. Every moment v/e 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 15? 

stay increases our danger, and adds to my apprehen- 
sions. 

Leontine. There's no danger, trust me, my dear ; 
there can be none. If Honeywood has acted with 
honour, and kept my father, as he promised, in em- 
ployment till we are out of danger, nothing can in- 
terrupt our journey. 

Otivia. I have no doubt of Mr. Honeywood's sin- 
cerity, and even his desire to serve us. My fears are 
from your father's suspicions. A mind so disposed to 
be alarmed without a cause, will be but too ready 
when there's a reason. 

Leontine. Why, let him, when we are out of his 
power. But believe me, Olivia, you have no great 
reason to dread his resentment. His repining temper, 
as it does no manner of injury to himself, so will it 
never do harm to others. He only frets to keep him- 
self employed, and scolds for his private amusement. 

Olivia. 1 don't know that; but I'm sure, on some 
occasions, it makes him look most shockingly. 

Croaker discovering himself. 

Croaker. Bov/ does he look now 1 — How does he 
look now 7 

Otivta. Ah! 

Leontine. Undone ! 

Cn^aker. How do I look now 1 Sir, I am your 
very humble servant. IMadam, I am yours! What! 
you are gomg off, are youl Then, first, if you please, 
take a word or two from me with you before you go. 
Tell me first where you are going; and when you 
have told me that, perhaps I shall know as little as I 
did before. 

Leontine. If that be so, our answer might but in- 
crease your displeasure, without adding to your infor- 
mation. 

Croaker. I want no information from you, puppy : 
and you too, good madam, vvhat answer have you 
got] Eh! (A cry without. Stop him.) I think J 



158 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

heard a noise. My friend Honeywood without — has 
he seized the incendiary 1 Ah, no, for now I hear 
no more on't. 

Leontine. Honeywood without ! Then, sir, it was 
Mr. Honeywood that directed you hither"! 

Croakei . No, sir, it was Mr. Honeywood conducted 
me hither, 

I.eontine. Is it possible] 

Croaker. Possible ! why he's in the house now, sir; 
more anxious about me than my own son, sir. 

Leont'ine. Then, sir, he's a villain. 

Croaker. How, sirrah ! a villain, because he takes 
most care of your father? I'll not bear it. I tell 
you, I'll not bear it. Honeyvi'ood is a friend to the 
family, and I'll have him treated as such. 

Leontine. I shall study to repay his friendship as it 
deserves. 

Croaker. Ah, rogue, if you knew how earnestly he 
entered into my griefs, and pointed out the means to 
detect them, you would love him as I do. (A cry 
wiihnut. Stop him.) Fire and fury ! they have seized 
the incendiary : they have the villain, the incendiary 
in view. Stop him ! stop an incendiary ! a murderer ! 
stop him ! [^Exit. 

Olivia. Oh, my terrors !. What can this tumult 
mean ? • , 

Leontine. Some new mark, I suppose, of Mr. 
Honeywood's sincerity. But we shall have satisfac- 
tion : he shall give me instant satisfaction. 

Olivia. It must not be, my Leontine, if you value 
my esteem or my happiness. Whatever be our fate, 
let us not add guilt to our misfortunes : consider that 
our innocence will shortly be all that we have left us. 
You must forgive him. 

Leontine. Forgive him ! Has he not in every in- 
stance betrayed us 1 Forced me to borrow money from 
him, which appears a mere trick to delay us; pro- 
mised to keep my father engaged till we were out of 
danger, and here brought him to the very scene of 
our escape? . 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 159 

Olivia. Don't be precipitate. We may yet be mis- 
taken. 

Enter Postboy, dragging in Jarvis; Honeywood entering 
soon after. 

Postboy. Ay, master, we have him fast enough. 
Here is the incendiary dog. I'm entitled to the re- 
ward ; I'll take my oath I saw him ask for the money 
at the bar, and then run for it. 

Honeywood. Come, bring him along. Let us see 
him. Let him learn to blush for his crimes. (Disco- 
vering his mistake.) Death! what's here? Jarvis, 
Leoniine, Olivia ! What can all this mean 1 

Jarvis. Why, I'll tell you what it means : that I 
was an old fool, and that you are my master — that's all. 

Honeywood. Confusion ! 

Leontine. Yes, sir, I find you have kept your word 
with me. After such baseness, I wonder how you 
can venture to see the man you have injured ! 

Honeywood. My dear Leontine, by my life, my 
honour 

Leontine. Peace, peace, for shame ; and do not 
continue to aggravate baseness by hypocrisy. I know 
you, sir, I know you. 

Honeywood. Why won't you hear me? By all that's 
just, I knew not 

Leontine. Hear you, sir ! to what purpose 1 I now 
see through all your low arts ; your ever complying 
with every opinion ; your never refusing any request ; 
your friendship's as common as a prostitute's favours, 
and as fallacious ; all these, sir, have long been con- 
temptible to the world, and are now perfectly so to me. 

Honeywood, Ha ! contemptible to the world ! that 
reaches mo. [^Aside. 

Leontine. All the seeming sincerity of your profes- 
sions, I now find were only allurements to betray ; 
and all your seeming regret for their consequences, 
only calculated to cover the cowardice of you? heart. 
Draw, villain ! 



iCO THE GOOD-NATUKED MA^ 

Enter Croaker, out of breath. 

Croaker. Where is the villain'! Where is the in- 
cendiary? (^Seizing the Postboy.) Hold him fast, the 
dog : he has the gallows in his face. Come, you 
dog, confess; confess ail, and hang yourself. 

Postboy. Zounds ! master, what do you throttle me 
fori 

Groaker. (Beating him.) Dog, do you resist'; do 
you resist 1 

Postboy. Zounds ! master, I'm not he ; there's ihe 
man that we thought was the rogue, and turns out to 
be one of the company. 

Croaker. How ! 

Honeywood. Mr. Croaker, we have all been unaer 
a strange mistake iiere ; 1 find there is nobody guiltv ; 
it was all an error — entirely an error of our own. 

Croaker. And I say, sir, that you're in error ; for 
there's guilt and double guilt, a plot, a damned Jesuit- 
ical, pestilential plot, and I must have proof of it. 

Honeywood. Do but hear me. 

Croaker. What ! you intend to bring 'em off, i 
suppose ? I'll hear nothing. 

Honeywood. Madam, you seem at least calm enougc 
to hear reason. 

Olivia. Excuse me. 

Honeywood. Good Jarvis, let me then explain i* 
to you. 

•farvis. What signifies explanations when the thing 
is done? 

Honeywood. Will nobody hear me 1 Was there ever 
such a set, so blinded by passion and prejudice? (To 
the Postboy) My good friend, I believe you'll be sur- 
prised when I assure you 

Postboy. Sure me nothing — I'm sure of nothing but 
a good beating. 

Croaker. Come then you, madam, if you ever hope 
for any favour or forgiveness, tell me sincerely all you 
know of this aflfair. 



THE GOOD-NATURED SIAf}. 161 

Olivia. Unhappily, sir, I'm but too much the cause 
of your suspicions : You see before you, sir one that, 
with false pretences, has slept into your family to 
betray it ; not your daughter 

Croaker. Not my daughter ! 

Olivia. Not your daughter — but a mean deceiver — 
who — support me, 1 cannot 

Hcneywood. Help, she's going; give her air. 

Croaker. Ay, ay, take the young woman to the 
air; 1 would not hurt a hair of her head, whose ever 
daughter she may be — not so bad as that neither. 

[Exeunt all but Croaker. 
Yes, yes, all's out; I now see the whole affair: my 
son is either married, or going to be so, to this lady, 
whom he imposed upon me as his sister. Ay, certainly 
so ; and yet I don't find it afflicts me so much as one 
might think. There's the advantage of fretting away 
our misfortunes beforehand, — we never feel them 
when they come. 

Enter Miss Richland and Sir William. 

Sir William. But how do you know, madam, that 
my nephew intends setting off from this place 1 

Miss Richland. My maid assured me he was come 
to this inn, and my own knowledge of his intending to 
/eave the kingdom, suggested the rest. But what do 
I see 1 my guardian here before us ! Who, my dear 
sir, could have expected meeting you here 1 To what 
accident do we owe this pleasure l 

Croaker. To a fool, 1 believe. 

Miss R'chland. But to what purpose did you cornel 

Croaker. 'J"o play the fool. 

Miss Richland. But with whom'? 

Croaker. With greater fools than myself. 

Miss Richland. Explain. 

Croaler. Why, Mr. Honey wood brought me here, 
to do nothing now I am here ; and my son is going to 
be married to I don't know who, that is here : so now 
vou are as wise as I am. 



1G2 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Miss Richland. Married ! to whom, sir 1 

Croaker. To Olivia, my daughter, as I took her to 
be ; but who the devil she is, or whose daughter she 
is, I know no more than the man in the moon. 

Sir William. Then, sir, I can inform you ; and, 
though a stranger, yet you shall find me a friend to 
your family. It will be enough, at present, to assure 
you, that boihin point of birth and fortune, the young- 
lady is at least your son's equal. Being left by her 
father. Sir James Woodville 

Croaker. Sir James Woodville ! What ! of the 
West 1 

Sir William. Being left by him, I say, to the care of 
a mercenary wretch, whose only aim was to secure her 
fortune to himself, she was sent to France, under pre- 
tence of education ; and there every art was tried to 
fix her for life in a convent, contrary to her inclina- 
tions. Of this I was informed upon my arrival at Paris ; 
and, as I had been once her father's friend, I did all 
in my power to frustrate her guardian's base inten- 
tions. 1 had even meditated to rescue her from his 
authority, when your son stept in with more pleasing 
violence, gave her liberty, and you a daughter. 

Croaker. But I intend to have a daughter of my 
own choosing, sir. A young lady, sir, whose fortune, 
by my interest with those that have interest, vvill be 
double what my son has a right to expect. Do you 
know Mr. Lofty, sir ? 

Sir William. Yes, sir ; and know that you are de- 
ceived in him. But step this way, and I'll convince 
you. [^Croaker and Sir William seem to confer. 

Enter Honeywood. 

Honeywood. Obstinate man, still to persist in his 
outrage ! Insulted by him, despised by all, I now 
begiti to grow contemptible even to myself; Hovr 
have I sunk, by too great an assiduity to please ! Hovr 
have I overtaxed all my abilities, lest the approbation 
of a single fool should escape me ! But all is now 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 162 

over : I have survived my reputation, my fortune, my 
friendships, and nothing remains henceforward for me 
but solitude and repentance. 

Miss Richland. Is it true, Mr. Honeywood, that 
you are setting oft", without taking leave of you^ 
friends'! The report is, that you are quitting England : 
Can it be 1 

Honeywood. Yes, madam ; and though I am so 
unhappy as to have fallen under your displeasure, yet, 
thank Heaven ! I leave you to happiness — to one who 
loves you, and deserves your love — to one who has 
power to procure you affluence, and generosity to im- 
prove your enjoyment of it. 

Miss Richland. And are you sure, sir, that the gen- 
tleman you mean is what you describe him 1 

Honeywood. I have the best assurances of it — his 
serving me. He does indeed deserve the highest hap- 
piness, and that is in your power to confer. As for 
me, weak and wavering as I have been, obliged by all, 
and incapable of serving any, what happmess can I 
find but in solitude? what hope, but ia being for- 
gotten 1 

Miss Richland. A thousand : to live among friends 
that esteem yoii, whose happiness k will be to be 
permitted to oblige you. 

Honeywood. No, madam, my resolutiop is fixed. 
Inferiority among strangers is easy ; but among those 
that once were equals, insupportable. Nay, to shew 
you how far my resolution can go, I can now speak 
with calmness of my former follies, my vanity, mv 
dissipation, my weakness. I will even confess, that, 
among the number of my other presumptions, I had 
the insolence to think of loving you. Yes, madam, 
while I was pleading the passion of another, my heart 
was tortured with its own. But it is over ; it was un- 
worthy our friendship, and let it be forgotten. 
Miss Richland. You amaze me! 
Honeywood. But you'll forgive it, I know you will: 
since the confession should not have come from me 



164 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 



even now, but to convince you of the sincerity of my 
intention of — never mentioning it more. [^Going. 

Miss Richland. Stay, sir, one moment — Ha ! he 
here 



Enter Lofty. 

Lofty. Is the coast clear? None but friends? I 
iiave followed you here with a trifling piece of intelli- 
gence ; but it goes no farther ; things are not yet 
ripe for a discovery. I have spirits working at a cer- 
tain board ; your affair at the Treasury will be done 
in less than — a thousand years. Mum ! 

Miss Fiichland. Sooner, sir, I should hope. 

Lofty. Why, yes, I believe it may, if it falls into 
proper hands, that know where to push and where to 
parry ; that know how the land lies — eh. Honey wood ? 

Miss Richland. It has fallen into yours. 

Lofty. Well, to keep you no longer in suspense, 
your thing is done. It is done, I say — that's all. I 
have ju9t had assurances from Lord Neverout, that 
the claim has been examined, and found admissible. 
Quietus is the word, madam. 

Honeywood. But howl his lordship has been at 
Newmarket these ten days. 

JLofty. Indeed! then Sir Gilbert Goose must have 
been most damnably mistaken. I had it of him. 

Miss Richland. He I why. Sir Gilbert anti his 
family have been in the country this month. 

Lofty. This month ! it must certainly be so — S;r 
Gilbert's letter did come to me from Newmarket, so 
that he must have met his lordship there ; and so it 
came about. I have his letter about me ; I'll read it 
to you. {Taking out a large bundle.) Thai's from 
Paoli of Corsica, that from the Marquis of Squilachi. 
Have you a mind to see a letter from Count Ponia- 
towski, now King of Poland 1 Honest Pon — {Search- 
ing.) Oh, sir, what are you here too 1 I'll tell you 
what, honest friend, if you have not absolutely de- 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 165 

livered my letter to Sir William Honeywooil, you 
may return it. The thing- will do without him. 

Sir William. Sir, I have delivered it ; and must 
inform you it was received with the most mortifying 
contempt. 

Croaker. Contempt! Mr. Lofty, what can that 
mean? 

Lqf'tii. Let him go on, let him go on, I say. You'll 
find it come to something presently. 

Sir William. Yes, sir ; I believe you'll be amazed, 
if, after waiting some time in the antichamber — after 
being surveyed with insolent curiosity by the passing 
servants, 1 was at last assured, that Sir William 
Honeywood knew no such person, and I must cer- 
tainly have been imposed upon. 

Lofty. Good! let me die : very good. Ha! ha! ha' 

Croaker. Now, for my life, I can't find out half 
the goodness of it. 

Lojty. You can't? Ha! ha! 

Croaker. No, for the soul of me : I think it was as 
confounded a bad answer as ever was sent from one 
private gentleman to another. 

Lofty. And so you can't find out the force of the 
message ? Why, I was in the house at that very 
time. Ha ! ha ! it was I that sent that very answer 
to my own letter. Ha ! ha ! 

Croaker. Indeed ! How 1 why 1 

Lofty. In one word, things between Sir William 
and me must be behind the curtain. A party has 
many eyes. He sides with Lord Buzzard, I side with 
Sir Gilbert Goose. So that unriddles the mystery. 

_ Croaker. And so it does, indeed ; and all my sus- 
picions are over. 

Lofty. Your suspicions ! what, then, you have 
been suspecting' you have been suspecting, have 
you ! Mr. Croaker, you and I were friends — we are 
friends no longer. Never talk to me. It'i over ; I 
say it's over. 

Croaker. As I hope for your favour, I did not mean 
to offend. It escaped me. Don't be discomposed. 



166 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Lofty. Zounds! sir, but I am discomposed, and 
. will be discomposed. To be treated thus ! Who am 
1 1 Was it for this I have been dreaded both by ins 
and outs? Have I been libelled in the Gazetteer, 
and praised in the St. James's ; have I been chaired 
at Wildman's, and a speaker at Merchant Tailors' 
Hall ; have 1 had my hand to addresses, and my 
head in the print-shops, — and talk to me of suspects'! 

Croaker. My dear sir, be pacified. What ca«n you 
have but asking pardon l 

Lnjty. Sir, 1 will not be pacified — Suspects! Who 
am 1 1 To be used thus ! Have I paid court to men 
in favour to serve my friends, the lords of the Trea- 
sury, Sir William Honeywood, and the rest of the 
gang, and talk to me of suspects ! Who am I, I say, 
who am 1 1 

Sir WWiam. Since you are so pressing for an 
answer, I'll tell you who you are : — A gentleman as 
well acquainted with politics as with men in power ; 
as well acquainted with persons of fashion as with 
modesty ; with lords of the Treasury as with truth ; 
and, with all, as you are with Sir William Honey- 
wood. I am Sir William Honeywood, (^Discoiering 
his ensigns of the Bath.) 

Croaker. Sir William Honeywood I 

Honeywood, Astonishment ! my uncle ! (Aside.') 

LnJ'ty. So then, my confounded genius has' been 
all this time only leading me up to the garret, in 
order to fling me out of the window. 

Croaker. What, Mr. Importance, and are these your 
works'! Suspect you! You, who have been dreaded 
by the ins and outs ; you, who have had your hand 
to addresses, and your head stuck up in print-shops ! 
If you were served right, you should have your head 
stuck up in the pillory. 

Lofty. Ay, stick it where you will ; for by the 
Lord, it cuts but a very poor figure where it sticks at 
present. 

Sir William. Well, Mr. Croaker, I hope you now 
see how incapable this gentleman is of serving you. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 167 

and how little Miss llichland has to expect {lom his 
influence. 

Croaker. Ay, sir, too well I see it ; and I can't but 
say I have had some boding of it these ten days. So 
I'm resolved, since my son has placed his affections on 
a lady of moderate fortune, to be satisfied with his 
choice, and not run the hazard of another Mr. Lofty 
in helping him to a better. 

Sir William. I approve your resolution ; and here 
they come, to receive a confirmation of your pardon 
and consent. 

Enter Mrs. Croaker, Jarvis, Leontine, and Olivia. 

Mrs. Croaker. Where's my husband"! Come, come, 
lovey, you must forgive them. Jarvis here has been 
to tell me the whole affair ; and I say, you must for- 
give thera. Our own was a stolen match, you know, 
my dear ; and we never had any reason to repent 
of it. 

Croaker. I wish we could both say so. However, 
this gentleman. Sir William Honeywood, has been 
beforehand with you in obtaining their pardon. So, 
if the two poor fools have a mind to marry, I think 
we can tack them together without crossing the 
Tweed for it. [Joining their hands, 

Leontine. How blest and unexpected! What, 
what can we say to such goodness 1 But our future 
obedience shall be the best reply. And as for this 
gentleman, to whom we owe 

Sir William. Excuse me, sir, if I interrupt your 
thanks, as I have here an interest that calls me. 
(^Turning to Honeywood.) Yes, sir, you are surprised 
to see me ; and I own that a desire of correcting your 
follies led me hither. I saw with indignation the 
errors of a mind that only sought applause from 
others ; that easiness of disposition which, though in- 
clined to the right, had not courage to condemn 
the wrong. I saw with regret those splendid errors,, 
that still took name from some neighbouring duty ; 



im 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN." 



your charity, that was but iajustice ; your benevo- 
ienoe, that was but weakness; and your friendship 
but credulity. I saw with regret, great talents and 
exteasive learning only employed to add sprightliness 
to error, and increase your perplexities. I saw your 
mind with a thousand natural charms ; but the great- 
ness of its beauty served only to heighten my pity for 
its prostitution. 

Honeywood. Cease to upbraid me, sir : I have for 
some time but too strongly felt the justice of your re- 
proaches. But there is one way still left me. Yes, 
sir, 1 have determined this very hour to quit for evsi 
a place where 1 have made myself the voluntary slave 
of all, and to seek among strangers that fortitude 
which may give strength to the mind, and marshal all 
its dissipated virtues. Yet, ere I depart, permit me 
to solicit favour for this gentleman, who, notwith- 
standing what has happened, has laid me under the 
most signal obligations. Mr. Lofty 

Lofty. Mr. Honeywood, I'm resolved upon a re- 
formation as well as you. I now begin to find that the 
man who first invented the art of speaking truth, was a 
much cunninger fellow than I thought him. ■ And to 
prove that 1 design to speak truth for the future, I 
must now assure you, that you owe your late enlarge- 
ment to another ; as, upon my soul, I had np hand 
in the matter. So now, if any of the company has a 
mind for preferment, he may take my place ; I'm de- 
termined to resign. [Exit. 

Honeywood. How have I been deceived ! 

SirWiUlam. No, sir, you have been obliged to a 
kinder, fairer friend, for that favour, — to Miss Rich- 
land. Wou.ld she complete our joy, and make the 
man she has honoured by her friendship happy in her 
love, I should then forget all and be as blest as the 
welfare of my dearest kinsman can make me. 

Miss Richland. After what is past, it would be but 
affectation to pretend to indifference. Yes, I will own 
an attachment, which I find was more than friendship. 
And if my entreaties cannot alter his resolution to 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. ICO 

quit the country, I will even try if my hand has not 
power to detain him. \_Giving her hand. 

Honeywnod. Heavens ! how can 1 have deserved all 
this? How express my happiness — my gratitude? A 
moment like this overpays an age of apprehension. 

Croaker. Well, now I see content in every face ; 
but Heaven send we be all better this day three 
months ! 

Sir WiUiam. Henceforth, nephew, learn to respect 
yourself. He who seeks only for applause from 
without, has all his happiness in another's keeping. 

Honeywood. Yes, sir, I now too plainly perceive 
my errors : my vanity, in attempting to please all by 
fearing to offend any ; my meanness, in approving 
folly lest fools should disapprove. Henceforth, there- 
fore, it shall be my study to reserve my pity for real 
distress ; my friendship for true merit ; and my love 
for her who first taught me what it is to be happy. 

[^Exeunt omnes. 



EPILOGUE.* 

SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY. 

As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure 
To swear the pill or drop has wrought a cure ; 
Thus, on the stage, our play-wrights still depend 
For epilogues and prologues oa some friend. 
Who knows each art of coaxing up the town, 
And makes full many a bitter pill go down. 
Conscious of this, our bard has gone about, 
And teased each rhyming friend to help him out : 
An epilogue ! things can't go on without it ! 
It could not fail, would you but set about it : 
' Young man,' cries one (a bard laid up in clover), 
' Alas I young man, my writing days are over 1 

* The author, in expectation of an Epilop^ue from a friend at Oxford; 
deferred writinsf one himself till the very last hour. What is here 
offered, owes all its success to the graceful raanoer of the actress wbc 
spoke it. 



irO THE Gr-OD-NATURED MAN. 

Let bO£S play tricks, and kick the straw, not I; 

Your brother-doctor there, perhaps, may try.' 

' What I, dear s\vV the Doctor interposes, 

• What, plant my thistle, sir, among his roses ! 

No, no, I've other contests to maintain ; 

To-night I head our troops at Warwick- Lane. 

Go, ask your manager.' — ' Who, me"! Your pardon ; 

Those things are not our forte at Coven t Garden.' 

Our author's friends, thus placed at happy distance 

Give him good words indeed, but no assistance. 

As some unhappy wight, at some new play. 

At the pit-door stands elbowing a way. 

While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug, 

He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug; 

His simpering friends, with pleasure in their eyes. 

Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise : 

He nods, they nod ; he cringes, they grimace; 

But not a soul will budge to give him place. 

Since, then, unhelp'd, our bard must now conform 

' 'I'o 'bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,' 

Blame where you must, be candid where you can. 

And be each critic the Good-Naiured Man. 



in 
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER; 

on, 

THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT. 

k COMEDY. 

Skt Sloops to Conquer was represi ^ ..'c: for the first time, March 15, 
177?. It wiis very succe,-sl'iil, iv' rec^j'e a stock plav. GolUsiuitll 
oiii;iaally entitled it, T/ie Old Home a iSeio Inn. 

DEDICATION. 

TO SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL. D. 

Dear Sir — Ry inscribing- this slight performance 
to yon, I do not mean so much to compliment you 
as myself. It may do me some honour to inform the 
public, that 1 have Uvea many years in intimacy with 
you. It may cum the interejls of inankind also to 
inform them that the greatest wit may be found in a 
character, without impairing the most unaffected 
piety. 

1 have, particularly, reason to t.iank you for your 
partiality to this performance. The undertaking a 
comedy, not merely sentimental, was very dangerous; 
and Mr. Colman, who saw this piece in its various 
stages, always thought it so. However, I ventured 
to trust it to the public ; and, though it was necessa- 
rily delayed till late in the season, I have every rea- 
Eoa to be grateful. 

I am, dear Sir, 
Your most sincere friend and admirer, 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



DRAMATIS PERSONit. 

MEN. 

Sir Charles Marlow. 

Young Marlow (his son ft 

Hardcastle. 

Hastings. 

Tony Lumpkin. 

Biggory. 

WOMEN, 

Mrs. Hardcastle. 
Miss Hardcastle^ 
Miss Neville, 
Maid. 

Landlord, Servant; ifi' 



173 

SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER; 

OR, 

THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT. 



PROLOGUE, 

BY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ. 

Enter Mr. Woodward, dressed in black, and holding a 
handkerchief to his eyes. 

Excuse me, sirs, I pray — I can't yet speak — 
I'm crying now — and have been all the week. 
' 'Tis not alone this mourning suit,' good masters : 
' I've that within' for which there are no plasters ! 
Pray, would you know the reason why I'm cryingl 
The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a-dying 1 
And if she goes, my tears will never stop ; 
For, as a player, I can't squeeze out one drop 
I am undone, that's all — shall lose my bread — 
I'd rather — but that's nothing — lose my head. 
When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier, 
Shuter and I shall be chief mourners here. 
To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed. 
Who deals in sentimentals, will succeed. 
Poor Ned and I are dead to all intents ; 
We can as soon speak Greek as sentiments : 
Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up. 
We now and then take down a hearty cup. 
What shall we do? if Comedy forsake us. 
They'll turn us out, and no one else will take us. 
But why -can't I be moral ? Let me try : 
My heart thus pressing — fix'd my face and eye— 
With a sententious look that nothing means 
(Faces are blocks in sentimental scenes). 



174 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 



Thus I begin, ' All is not gold that glitters, 

Pleasures seem sweet, but prove a glass of bitters. 

When ign'raace enters, folly is at hand : 

Learning is better far than house or land. 

Let not your virtue trip : w1io trips may stumble. 

And virtue is not virtue if she tumble.' 

I give it up — morals won't do for me ; ^ 

To make you l^ugh, I must play tragedy. 

One hope remains, — hearing the maid was ill, 

A Doctor comes this night to shew his skill ; 

To cheer her heart, and give your muscles motion 

He, in Five Draughts prepared, presents a potion 

A kind of magic charm ; for, be assured. 

If you vA\l swallow it, the maid is cured : 

But desperate the Doctor s and her case is. 

If "you reject the dose and make wry faces. 

This truth he boasts, will boast it while he lives 

No pois'uous drugs are mix'd in what he gives 

Should he succeed, you'll give him his degree • 

If not, within he will receive no fee. 

The college, you, must his pretensions back, 

Pronounce him Regular, or dub hira Quack. 



ACTFIRST. 

Scene 1. — a chamber in an old-fashioned BoOe^. 

Enter Mrs. Hardcastle and Mr. Hardcastle. 

Mrs. Hardcastle, I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you're 
very particular. Is there a creature in the wnole 
country but ourselves, that does not take a trip to town 
now and then, to rub off the rust a little ? 'i'here's the 
two Miss Hoggs, and our neighbour Mrs. Grigsby, 
go to take a month's polishing every winter. 

Hardcastle. Ay, and bring back vanity and affecta 
tion to last them (he whole year. I wonder why LondoB 
cannot keep its own fools at home. In my time, tht 
follies of the town crept slowly among us, but nov 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 175 

they travel faster than a stage-coach. Its fopperies 
come down not only as inside passenge: s, but in the 
very basket. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Aye, your times were fine times 
indeed : you have been telling us of them for many a 
long year. Here we live in an old rumbling mansion, 
thai looks for all the world like an inn, but that we 
never see company. Our best visitors are old Mrs. Odd- 
fish, the curate's wife, and little Cripplegate, the lame 
dancing-master ; and all our entertainment your old 
stories of Prince Eugene and the Duke of Marlbo- 
rough. 1 hate such old-fashioned trumpery. 

Hardcastle. And I love it, I love every thing that's 
old : old friends, old times, old manners, old books, 
old wine ; and, 1 believe, Dorothy, {taking her hand,) 
you'll own I've been pretty fond of an old wife. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you're for 
ever at your Dorothys, and your old wives. Ycu 
may be a Darby, but I'll be no Joan, I promise you. 
I'm not so old as you'd make me, by more than one 
good year. And twenty to twenty, and make money 
of that. 

Hardcastle. Let me see ; twenty added to twenty, 
makes just fifty and seven. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. It's false, Mr. Hardcastle ; I was 
but twenty when I was brought to-bed of Tony, that 
I had by Mr. Lumpkin, my first husband j and he's 
not come to years of discretion yet. 

Hardcastle. Nor ever will, I dare answer for him. — 
Ay, you have taught him finely ! 

Mrs. Hardcastle. No matter. Tony Lumpkin has 
a good fortune. My son is not to live by his learning. 
I don't think a boy wants much learning to spend 
fifteen hundred a-year. 

Hardcastle. Learning, quotha ! a mere composition 
of tricks and mischief. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Humour, my dear, nothing but 
humour. Come, Mr. Hardcastle, you must allow the 
boy a little humour. 

Hardcastle. I'd sooner allow him a horse-pond. If 



176 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

burning the footman's shoes, frightening the maids, 
and worrying the kittens, be humour, lie has it. It was 
but yesterday he fastened my wig to the back of my 
chair, and when I went to make a bow, 1 popt my 
bald head in Mrs. Frizzle's face. 

Mrs. Hardcantte. And am 1 to blame 1 The poor 
boy was always too sickly to do any good. A school 
would be his death. When he comes to be a little 
stronger, who knows what a year or two's Latin may 
do for him 1 

Hardcastle. Latin for him ! A cat and fiddle No, 
no ; the alehouse and the stable are the only schools 
he'll ever go to. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, we must not snub the poor 
boy now, for I believe we shan't have him long among 
us. Any body that looks in his face may see he's 
consumptive. 

Hindcastle. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the 
symptoms. 

Mrs Hardcastle. He coughs sometimes. 

Rardcaitle. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong 
way. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. I'm actually afraid of his lung-3. 

Hurdcii.'.tle. And truly so am 1 ; for 'le sometimes 
whoo|js like a speaking trumpet — (Toni), hallomng 
behind the scenes.)— Oh, there he guts— a very con- 
sumptive figure, truly ! 

Enter Tony, crossing the Stage. 

Mrs. Hardcii.'stle. Tony, where are you going, my 
charmer 1 Won't you give papa and 1 a little of your 
company, lo\ey 1 

Tony. I'm in haste, mother ; I cannot stay. 

M^s. H.irdcastle. You shan't venture out this raw 
evening, my dear; you look most shockingly. 

Tony. 1 can't stay, 1 fell you. The Three Pigeons 
expects me down every moment. There's some fun 
going forward. 

Hardcastle. Ay, the alehouse, the old place; I 
thought so. 



SHK STOOPS TO CONQUER. i77 

Mrs, Hardcaslle. A low, paltry set of fellows. 

■Tony, Not so low neither. 'J'here's Dick Muggins, 
the exciseman. Jack Slang;, the horse-doctor, little 
Aminadab, that grinds the music-box, and Tom Twist, 
that spins the pewter platter. 

Mrs, Hardcaitle. Pray, my dear, disappoint them 
for one night at least. 

Tony. As for disappointing them, I should not so 
much mind : but 1 can't abide to disappoint myself. 

Mrs. Hardcaitle. {Detaining him.) You shan't go. 

Tony. I will, I tell you. 

Mrs. Hardciistle. I say you shan't. 

Tony, We'll see which is the strongest, you or I. 
[Exit, hauling her cnix. 

Hardcastle. (Alone.) Ay, there goes a pair that 
only spoil each other. But is not the whole age in a' 
combination to drive sense and discretion out of doors 1 
There's my pretty darling, Kate ! the fashions of the 
times have almost infected her too. By living a year 
or two in town, she is as fond of gauze and French 
frippery as the best of them. 

Enter Miss Hardcastle, 

Hardcastle. Blessings on my pretty innocence ! 
drest out as usual, my Kate. Goodness! what a 
quantity of superfluous silk hast thou got about thee, 
girl ! I could never teach the fools of this age, that 
the indigent world could be clothed out of the trim- 
mings of the vain. 

Miss Hardcaitle, You know our agreement, sir. 
You allow me the morning to receive and pay visits, 
and to dress in my own manner ; and in the evening 
I put on my housewife's dress to please you. 

Hardcastle. Well, remember 1 insist on the terms 
of our agreement ; and, by the by, I believe I shall 
have occasion to try your obedience this very evening. 

Miss Hardcastle, 1 protest, sir, I don't comprehend 
your meaning. 

Hardcastle. Then, to be plain with you, Kate, 1 
12 



178 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

expect the young- gentleman I have chosen to be 

your husband from town this very day. I have his 

father's letter, in which he informs me his son is set 

out, and that he intends to follow himself shortly 

after. 

Miss Hardcastle. Indeed ! I wish I had known 
something of this before. Bless me, how shall 1 be- 
have 1 It s a thousand to one 1 shan't like him ; our 
meeting will be so formal, and so like a thing of bu- 
siness, that I shall find uo room for friendship or 
esteem. 

Hardcastle. Depend upon it, child, I never will 
sontrol your choice ; but Mr. Marlow, whom I have 
pitched upon, is the son of my old friend. Sir Charles 
Marlow, of whom you have heard me talk so often. 
The young gentleman has been bred a schoisr, and 
is designed tor an employment in the service -jf his 
country. I am told he's a man of an excellent un- 
derstanding. 

Miss Hardcastle. Is he 1 

Hardcastle. Very generous. 

Miss Hardcastle. 1 believe I shall like him. 

Hardcastle. ifoung and brave. 

Miss Hardcastle. I'm sure 1 shall like him. 

Hardcastle. And very handsome. 

Miss Hardcastle. My dear papa, say no more, 
(kissing his hand) he's mine — I'll have him. 

Hardcaitle. And, to crown all, Kate, he's one of 
the most bashful and reserved young fellows in all 
the world. 

Miss Hardcastle. Eh ! you have frozen me to death 
again. That word reserved has undone all the rest 
of his accomplishments. A reserved lover, it is said, 
always makes a suspicious husband. 

Hardcastle. On the contrary, modesty seldom re- 
sides in a breast that is not enriched with nobler vir- 
tues. It was the very feature in his character that 
first struck me. 

Miss Hardcastle. He must have more striking fea- 
tures to catch me, I promise you. However, if he 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 179 

be so young, so handsome, and so every thinp; as you 
mention, 1 believe he'll do still. I think I'll have 
him. 

Hardcastle. Ay, Kate, but there is still an obstacle. 
It's more than an even wager he may not have you. 

Miss Hurdcastle. My dear papa, why will you 
mortify one sol Well, if he refuses, instead of break- 
ing my heart at his indifference, I'll only break my 
glass for its flattery, set my cap to some newer fashion, 
and look out for some less difficult admirer. 

Hardcastle. Bravely resolved 1 la the mean time 
I'll go prepare the servants for his reception : as we 
seldom see company, they want as much training as 
a company of recruits the first day's muster. [Exit. 

Miss Hardcastle. (Alone.) Lud, this news of papa's 
puts me all in a flutter. Young, handsome ; these 
he put last, but I put them foremost. Seusible, good- 
natured , I like all that. But then, reserved and 
sheepish ; that's much against him. Yet can't he be 
cured of his timidity, by being taught to be proud of 
his wife 1 Yes ; and can't I — But I vow I'm dis- 
posing of the husband, before 1 have secured the 
lover. 

Enter Miss Neville. 

Miss Hardcastle. I'm glad you're come, Neville, 
my dear. Tell me, Constance, how do I look this 
evening? Is there anything whimsical about me ? 
Is it one of my well-looking days, child ? am I ia 
face to day? 

Miss Neville. Perfectly, my dear. Yet now I look 
again — bless me! — sure no accident has happened 
among the canary birds or the gold fishes'! Has your 
brother or the cat been meddling'! or has the last 
novel been too moving 1 

Miss Hardcastle. No ; nothing of all this. I have 
been threatened — I can scarce get it out — I have 
been threatened with a lover. 

Miss Neville. And his name 



180 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Miss Hardcastle. Is ]\Iar!ow. 

Miss Neville. Indeed ! 

Miss Hardcastle. The son of Sir Charles Marlow. 

Miss Neville. As I live, the most intimate friend of 
Mr, Hastings, my admirer. They are never asunder. 
I believe you must have seen him when we lived in 
town. 

Miss Hardcastle. Never. 

Miss Neville. He's a very sing^ular character, I as- 
sure you. Among women of reputation and virtue, 
he is the modestest man alive ; but his acquaintance 
give him a very different character among creatures 
of another stamp — you understand me. 

Miss Hardcastle. An odd character, indeed. I 
shall never be able to manage him. What shall I 
do? Pshaw ! think no more of him, but trust to oc- 
currences for success. But how goes on your own 
affair, my dear ? has my mother been courting you 
for my brother Tony, as usual ? 

Miss Neville. I have just come from one of our 
agreeable tete-a-tetes. She has been saying a hun- 
dred tender things, and setting off her pretty monster 
as the very pink of perfection. 

Miss Hardcastle. And her partiality is such, that 
she actually thinks him so. A fortune like yours is 
no small temptation. Besides, as she has the sole 
management of it, I'm not surprised to see her unwil- 
ling to let it go out of the family. 

Miss Neville. A fortune like mine, which chiefly 
consists in jewels, is no such mighty temptation. But, 
at any rate, if my dear Hastings be but constant, I 
make no doubt to be too hard for her at last. How- 
ever, I let her suppose that I am in love with her son , 
and she never once dreams that my affections are 
fixed upon another. 

Miss Hardcastle. My good brother holds out 
stoutly. , I could almost love him for hating you so 

Miss Neville. It is a good-natured creature at bot- 
tom, and I'm sure would wish to see me married to 
any body but himself. But my aunt's bell rings for 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 181 

our afternoon's walk round the improvements. Allons ' 
Courage is necessary, as our affairs are critical. 

Miss Hardcastle. Would it were bed-time, and all 
were well. l_Eieunt. 



Scene u. — an alehouse room. 

Several shabby fellows with punch and tobacco ; Tony 
at the head of the table, a little higher than the 
rest, a mallet in his hand, 

Omnes. Hurrea ! hurrea ! hurrea ! bravo ! 

First Fellow, Now, gentlemen, silence for a song. 
The Squire is going to knock himself down for a song, 

Omnes. Ay, a song, a song ! 

Tony. Then I'll sing you, gentlemen, a song I 
made upon this alehouse. The Three Pigeons. 

SONG. 

Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain, 

With grammar, and nonsense, and learning ; 
Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, 

Gives genus a better discerning. 
Let them brag of their heathenish gods. 

Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians, 
Their quis, and their qucES, and their quods. 

They're all but a parcel of pigeons. 

Toroddle, toroddle, taroll. 

When methodist preachers come down, 

A-preaching that drinking is sinful, 
I'll wager the rascals a crown, 

They always preach best with a skinful. 
But when you come down with your pence, 

For a slice of their scurvy religion, 
I'll leave it to all men of sense. 

But you, my good friend, are the pigeon. 

Toroddle, toroddle, toroU. 

Then come, put the jorum about, 

And let us be merry and clever. 
Our hearts and our liquors are stout. 

Here's the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever. 



182 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Let some cry up woodcock or hare, 

Your bustards, your ducts, and your widgeons ; 
But of all the birds in the air. 

Here's a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons. 

Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. 

Omnes. Bravo, bravo ! 

First Fellow. The Squire has got some spunk in him. 

Second Fellow. I loves to hear him sing, bekeays 
he never gives us nothing that's lovr. 

Third Fellow. Oh, damn any thing that's lov?, I 
cannot bear it. 

Fourth Fellow. The genteel thing is the genteel 
thing at any time : if so be that a gentleman bees in 
a concatenation accordingly. 

Third Fellow. I like the maxum of it. Master 
Muggins. What though I am obligated to dance a 
bear, a man may be a gentleman for all that. May 
this be my poison, if my bear ever dances but to the 
very genteelest of tunes ; ' Water Parted/ or ' The* 
minuet in Ariadne.' 

Second Fallow. What a pity it is the Squire is not 
come to his own. It would be well for all the publi- 
cans within ten miles round of him. 

Tony. Ecod, and so it would, Master Slang. I'd 
then shew what it was to keep choice of company. 

Second Fellow. Oh, he takes after his own father 
for that. To be sure, old Squire Lumpkin was the 
finest gentleman I ever set my eyes on. For winding 
the straight horn, or beating a thicket for a hare or a 
wench, he never had his fellow. It was a saying in 
the place, that he kept the best horses, dogs, and girls, 
in the whole county. 

Tony. Ecod, and when I'm of age, I'll be no 
bastard, I promise you. I have been thinking of Bet 
Bouncer and the miller's gray mare to begin with. 
But come, my boys, drink about and be merry, 
for you pay no reckoning. Well, Stingo, what's the 
matter" 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 183 

Enter Landlord. 

Landlord. There be two gentlemen m a post-chaise 
at the door. They have lost their way upo' the forest ; 
and they are talking something about Mr. Hardcastle, 

Tmiy. As sure as can be, one of them must be the 
gentleman that's coming down to court my sister. Do 
they seem to be Londoners ] 

Landlord. 1 believe they may. They look woun- 
dily like Frenchman. 

Tony. Then desire them to step this way, and I'll 
set them right in a twinkling. (Exit Landloi-d.) 
Gentlemen, as they mayn't be good enough company 
for j'ou, step down for a moment, and I'll be with you 
in the squeezing of a lemon. [^Exeunt mob, 

Tony. (Alone.^ Father-in-law has been calling me 
whelp and hound this half-year. Now, if I pleased, 
I could be so revenged upon the old grumbletonian. 
But then I'm afraid — afraid of what 1 1 shall soon be 
worth fifteen hundred a-year, and let him frighten me 
out of that if he can. 

Enter Landlord, conducting Marlow and Hastings. 

Marlow. What a tedious uncomfortable day have 
we had of it ! We were told it was but forty miles 
across the country, and we have come above three- 
score. 

Hastings. And all, Marlow, from that unaccount- 
able reserve of yours, that would not let us inquire 
more frequently on the way. 

Marlow. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling to lay 
myself under an obligation to ever}' one I meet ; and 
often stand the chance of an unmannerly answer. 

Hastings. At present, however, we are not likely to 
receive any answer. 

Tony. No offence, gentlemen. But I'm told you 
have been inquiring for one Mr. Hardcastle, in these 
parts. Do you know what part of the country you 
ftre in 1 



18-1 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Hastings. Not ia the least, sir, but sliould thank 
you for information. 

Tony. Nor the way you came I 

Hastings. No, sir ; but if you can inform us 

Tony. Why, gentlemen, if yoa know neither the 
road you are going, nor where you are, nor the road 
you caiue, the first thing I have to inform you is, that 
— you have lost your vvay. 

Marlow. We wanted no gliost to telLus that. 

Tony. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold as to ask 
the place from whence you came 1 

Marlow. That's not necessary towards directing us 

/here we are to go. 
Tony. No offence; but question for question is all 
fair, you know. Pray, gentlemen, is not this same 
Hardcastle a cross-grained, old-fashioned, whimsical 
fellow, with an ugly face ; a daughter, and a pretty 
son? 

Hastings. We have not seen the gentleman ; but he 
has the family you mention. 

Tony. The daughter, a tall, trapesing, trolloping, 
talkative maypole ; the son, a pretty, well-bred, agree- 
able youth, that every body is fond of? 

Marlow. Our information differs in this. The daugh- 
ter is said to be well-bred, and beautiful ; the son an 
awkward booby, reared up and spoiled at his mother's 
apron-string. 

Tony. He-he-hem ! — Then, gentlemen, all I have 
to tell you is, that you won't reach Mr. Hardcastle's 
house this night, I believe. 

Hastings. Unfortunate ! 

Tony. It's a damned long, dark, boggy, dirty, dan- 
gerous way. Stingo, tell the gentlemen the way to 
Mr. Hardcastle's (winking upon the Landlord), Mr. 
Hardcastle's, of Quagmire Marsh — you understand 
me? 

Landlffrd. Master Hardcastle's ! Lock-a-daisy, my 
masters, you're come a deadly deal wrong ! When 
you came to tlie bottom of the hill, you should haye 
crossed down Squash Lane. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 185 

Marhw. Cross down Squash Lane ! 
Landlord. Then you were to keep straight forward, 
till you came to four roads. 

Marlow. Come to where four roads meet? 
Tony. Ay ; but you must be sure to take only one 
of them. 

Marlow. O sir, you're facetious. 
Tony. Then keeping to the right, you are to go side- 
ways, till you come upon Crack-skull common : there 
you must look sharp for the track of the wheel, and 
go forward till you come to farmer Murrain's barn. 
Coming to the farmer's barn, you are to turn to the 
right, and then to the left, and then to the right about 

again, till you find out the old mill 

Marlow. Zounds, man ! we could as soon find out 
the longitude ! 

Hastings. What's to be done, Marlow 1 
Mai-low. This house promises but a poor reception ; 
though perhaps the landlord can accommodate us. 

Landlord. Alack, master, we have but one spare 
bed in the whole house. 

Tony. And to my knowledge, that's taken up by 
three lodgers already. (After a pause in which the 
rest seem disconcerted) 1 have hit it : don't you think, 
Sting:o, our landlady could accommodate the gentle- 
men by the fire-side, with — three chairs and a bolster. 
Hastings. I hate sleeping by the fire-side. 
Marlow. And I detest your three chairs and a 
bolster. 

Tony. You do, do you 1 — then, let me see, — what 
if you go on a mile farther, to the Buck's Head ; the 
old Buck's Head on the hill, one of the best inns in 
the whole country. 

Hastings. O ho !■ so we have escaped an adventure 
for this night, however. 

Landlord. (Apart to Tony.) Sure, you ben't send- 
ing them to your father's as an inn, be you ? 

Tony. Mum, you fool you. Let them find that out. 
(To them) You have only to keep on straight forward, 
till you come to a large old house by tlie road side. 



1S6 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

You'll see a pair of large horns over the door. That's 
the sign. Drive up the yard, and call stoutly about 
you. 

Hastings. Sir, we are obliged to you. The servants 
can't miss the way ? 

Tony. No, no : but I tell you though, the landlord 
is rich, and going to leave off business ; so he wants 
to be thought a gentleman, saving your presence, he ! 
he ! he ! He'll be for giving you his company ; and, 
ecod, if you mind him, he'll persuade you that his 
mother was an alderman, and his aunt a justice of 
peace. 

Landlord. A troublesome old blade, to be sure ; but 
a keeps as good wines and beds as any in the whole 
country. 

Marlow. Well, if he supplies us with these, we shall 
want no farther connexion. 'We are to turn to the 
right, did you say 1 

Tony. No, no, straight forward ; I'll just step 
myself, and shew you a piece of the way. {To the 
Landlord) Mum ! 

Landlord. Ah, bless your heart, for a sweet, plea- 
sant damned mischievous son of a whore. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT SECOND. 

Scene I. — an old-fashioned house. < 

Enter Hardcastle, followed by three or four awkward 
Servants. 

Hardcastle. Well, I hope you are perfect in the 
table exercise I have been teaching you these three 
days. You all know your posts and your places, and 
can shew that j'ou have been used to good company, 
without ever stirring from home. 

Omnes. Ay, ay. 

Hardcastle. When company comes, you are not to 
pop out and stare, and then run in again, like frighted 
rabbits in a warren. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 187 

Cmnes. No, no. 

Hardcastle. You, Diggory, whom I have takec 
from the barn, are to make a show at the side-table ; 
and you, Roger, wliom I have advanced from the 
plough, are to place yourself behind my chair. But 
you're not to stand so, with your hands in your pockets. 
Take your hands from your pockets, Roger — and from 
your head, you blockhead you. See how Diggory 
carries his hands. They're a little too stiff, indeed, 
but that's no great matter. 

Diggory. Ay, mind how I hold them. I learned to 
hold my hands this way, when I was upon drill for 
the malitia. And so being upon drill — 

Hardcastle. You must not be so talkative, Diggory. 
You must be all attention to the guests ; you must 
hear us talk, and not think of talking ; you must see 
us drink, and not think of drinking ; you must see us 
eat, and not think of eating. 

Diggory. By the laws, your worship, that's par- 
fectly u-npossible. Whenever Diggory sees yeating 
going forward, ecod, he's always wishing for a mouthful 
himself. 

Hardcastle. Blockhead ! is not a beUyful in the 
kitchen as good as a bellyful in the parlour "! Stay 
your stomach with that reflection. 

Diggory. Ecod, I thank your v/orship, I'll make a 
shift to stay my stomach with a slice of cold beef in 
the pantry. 

Hardcastle. Diggory, you are too talkative. Then, 
if 1 happen to say a good thing, or tell a good story, 
at table, you must not all burst out a-laughing, as if 
you made part of the company. 

Diggory. Then, ecod, your worship must not tell 
the story of Ould Grouse in the gun-room ; I can't 
help laughing at that — he ! he ! he ! — for the soul of 
me. We have laughed at that these twenty years — 
ba ! ha ! ha I 

Hardcastle. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The story is a good 
one. Well, honest Diggory, you may laugh at that; 
but still remember to be attentive. Suppose one of 



ISS SHB STOOPS lO COXQrKR. 

tbe roocpaiQy sltocld call ror a glass of vine, bow iril! 
Toabeltivel A g^as$ itf vine, sir, if yoa please, (F* 
JDi^«rjr"> — Eh, Why doD^ jtw nsoTe? 

l>^gg«nr. £cod, jo«r woi^up, I sera have coo- 
nge till I see tbe eaitaUes aad diiokaUes bnwght 
apo* Ae taUe, aod diea 1^ as ba«ld as a Uqd. 

Hmiemde. What, vill nobodj more ? 

JFlnt SeniDit. rte not to kaTe Uus pkace. 

yrwl SoTHort. I\b ^le it's no plotce of miae. 

Tturd Scmat. Kor suae, for saitaia. 

■Di fe «wi t . WaHUS, aad Aa sare it canna be Etine. 

HmrdtmOe. Yoa bi^^xUs ! and so while, like 
joar hettas, Toa are qaairdliB^ for places, die gaests 
HBSt be starred. O yoa dances ! I ud I most bega 

an over asara :^t doot I hear a coach drife iato 

the raid 1 To yoar posas, Toa blockheads. IH go 
■i the Bean baae. and giveaayaSdfii^^'ssona hea^ 
wekorae atthe gate. [Eat Hmidematie. 

■ D i gg f f. By'tiK dereas, bj place is qaite gone 
oat of BB J head. 

Baga: I know datny place b to be eroy whoe. 

Fvtf Senaai. Where the devil is miiie! 

SaoMd Senaat. Uypleacektebeiiowliereatallj 
and so Ise go aboBtaiT basmess. 

-Uffaaf oiEraants, raaaiagaaiwi^ as y 
^T^afieafla, aucjbZ wnpm 

Ewea-Senmmt, w^A emmiks, Atma^m lUrkm ini 

SeramL Wdcor:., g^z-lezi^z, Tfrr weicaBK! 
This way. 

HwOimgs. After ^ ^ ; -? day, 

wdcoaae aace Ki:-T ;^ :::l .: 5 of a 

dean lOoaaBd a : ; v 

•eil-lDakii^ hoas.i 

Ifarfan. Thee, 
ag fiist laioEd tLz 
at last cons to k 



t» pay aO t&esa c^f 



SHB STOOPS TO COSQZES- WO 

addxtaid, or a marttle dtsoaaer-jaece, thoogli aot 
acbiallypatin tfaebOl^inSaBaeaiedboniagooeibaad- 
edlj- 

Mirter. TraTelleis, Geoife, Brast pay m all 
{daoes ; tfae <nly ^sieeoe b, tkat m good ims jon 
paj deail7fbrlezBiieE,mtiadiBii£joBaie&eeedziid 
tsarred. 

Hastimgs. Toe faa*e fired pRttfiB«AaaH»gt&em. 
In tnitii I knre bees often SBipned, Ikst joa w^ 
hare eeen eo mmtk of tlie woM, -wtth joor natmal 
good Bense, and yoar many ojuw t t i uuU e^ coaldnerer 
yet aeqoiie a l e q aiate sh^ of assmaacse. 

M«r^». Tie Ei^i^tnaa's waahOj. Brt tdl ne, 
Genfe, wfaere eo«ld I have leanaed dot assazaoee 

Jroatalkofl My life kas been diefiy ^poit ia a coi- 
ege or an inn, in sedssuo finm tfaa£ lordy pait of 
the erealioa tka£ cUe^ tea^ men coBfideBce. I 
dcB^kaow&at I was evo' Csmiliariy acqwamted iriA 
a eagle nacdest wonan, exe^ bbj notfaer^ — Bat 
among females of awnher das, yoaknov 

Hiotngs. Ay, aaioi^ tfae^ job are inipBdeat 
eBongfa, ctf an conseaenee. 

Miriam. They are (tf ^, yoa Iebok-. 

JBiofei^s. Bet in ibe coBipany of masen of r^s- 
falioB I never saw ^Kb an i£ot — ^cfa a treaabier ; 
joa hwk figr all the ««M as u joa wanted an oppor- 
tanity of fteaHwg oat of ri>e looaa. 

j£vte». Why, aaan, tiiat^s becaase I do waat to 
steal oat of the room. Faith, I hare cKten £ain^ a 
readstion to break the ice, asd latde away at any 
rate. But Idoot knowbow, a an^glaiace fioBa 
i pair of ^ec^es has totally ovesetKyii^alaiiaB. An 

impadcBt l^low may eoonteiiat Bio^Ety, bat TD be 
ha^ed if a coies: E:.sr czn ever eoanSafek inpor 
de&ee. 

H4ati*gi. I; ':_.;_.'_ . ' . z^^xhi^sB 

to th^m, tiii.: :. ibc lier* 

MbtImb. Wfcy, G«?r-T ;; to 

them — tfaey freeze, tbej - T : ; . -.aft 



190 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

of a comet, or a burning mountain, or some such ba- 
gatelle ; but to me, a modest woman, drest out ia all 
her finery, is the most tremendous object of the whole 
creation. 

Hastings. Ha ! ha ! ha ! At this rate, man, how 
can j'ou ever expect to marry 1 

Marlow. Never ; unless, as among- kings and 
princes, my bride were to be courted by proxy. If, 
indeed, like an Eastern bridegroom, one were to be 
introduced to a wife he never saw before, it might be 
endured. But to go through all the terrors of a formal 
courtship, together with the episode of aunts, grand- 
mothers, and cousins, and at last to blurt out the 
broad staring question of, ' Madam, will you marry 
me V No, no, that's a strain much above xne, 1 
assure you. 

Hastings. I pity you. But how do you intend be- 
having to the lady you are come down to visit at tne 
request of your father 1 

Marlow. As I behave to all other ladies : bow very 
low ; answer yes, or no, to all her demands. But 
for the rest, I don't think I shall venture to look in her 
face till I see my father's again. 

Hastings. I'm surprrsed that one who is so warm a 
friend, can be so cool a lover. 

Marlow. To be explicit, my dear Hastings, my 
chief inducement down was to be instrumental in for- 
warding your happiness, not my own. JMiss Neville 
loves you, the family don't know you ; as my friend, 
you are sure of a reception, and let honour do the 
rest. 

Hastings. My dear filarlow ! — But I'll suppress tha 
emotion. Were I a wretch, meanly seeking to carry 
off a fortune, you should be the last man in the world 
I would apply to for assistance. But Miss Neville's 
person is all I ask, and that is mine, both from her 
deceased father's consent, and her own inclination. 

Marlow. Happy man ! You have talents and art 
to captivate any vifoman. I'm doomed to adore the 
sex, and yet to converse with the only part of it I de* 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 191 

spise. This stammer in my address, and this awkward 
unprepossessing visage of mine, can never permit me 
to soar above the reach of a milliner's 'prentice, or one 
of the duchesses of Drury-laue. Pshaw ! this fellov? 
here to interrupt us. 

Enter Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily 
welcome. Which is Mr. Marlow 1 Sir, you are 
heartily welcome. It's not my way, you see, to re- 
ceive my friends with my back to the fire. 1 like to 
give them a hearty reception in the old style at my 
gate. 1 like to see their horses and trunks taken 
care of. 

Marlow. (Aside.) He has got our names from the 
servants already. (To Inni) \\ e approve your cau- 
tion and hospitality, sir. {To Hastings.) I have 
been thinking, George, of changing our travelling 
dresses in the morning. I am grown confoundedly 
ashamed of mine. 

Hardcastle. I beg, Mr. Marlow, you'll use no ce- 
remony in this house. 

Hastings. I fancy, Charles, you're right : the first 
blov/ is half the battle. I intend opening the cam- 
paign with the white and gold. 

Hardcastle. Mr. Marlow — Mr, Hastings — gentle- 
men — pray be under no restraint in this house. This 
is Liberty-hall, gentlemen. You may do just as you 
please here. 

Marlow. Yet, George, if we open the campaign 
too fiercely at first, we may want ammunition before 
it is over. I think to reserve the embroidery to secure 
a retreat. 

Hardcastle. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Marlow, 
puts me in mind of the Duke of Marlborough, when 
we went to besiege Denain. He first summoned the 
garrison 

Marlow. Don't you think the ventre d'or waistcoat 
will do with the plain brown 1 



192 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Hardcastle. He first, summoned the garrison, which 
might consist of about five thousand men ■ 

Hastings. I think not : brown and yellow mix but 
very poorly. 

Hardcastle. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you^ 
he summoned the garrison, which might consist of 
about five thousand men 

Marlow. The girls like finery. 

Hardcastle. Which might consist of about five 
thousand men, well appointed with stores, ammuni- 
tion, and other implements of war. Now, says the 
Duke of Marlborough to George Brooks, that stood 
next to him — You must have heard of George Brooks 
— ' I'll pawn my dukedom,' says he, ' but I take that 
garrison without spilling a drop of blood.' So 

Marlow. What, my good friend, if you gave us a 
glass of punch in the mean time ; it would help us to 
carry on the siege with vigour. 

Hardcastle. Punch, sir ! (Adde) This is the most' 
unaccountable kind of modesty I ever met with. 

Marlow. Yes, sir, punch. A glass of warm punch, 
after our journey, will be comfortable. This is Li- 
berty-hall, you know. 

Enter Roger with a cup, 

Hardcastle. Here's a cup, sir. 

3Iarlow. (^Aside.) So this fellow, in his .Liberty- 
hall, will only let us have just what he pleases. 

Hardcastle. (Taking the cup.} I hope you'll find it 
to your mind. I have prepared it with my own 
hands, and I believe you'll own the ingredients are 
tolerahle. Will you be so good as to pledge me, sir ? 
Here, Mr. Marlow, here is to our better acquaintance. 
(Drinh.) 

Marlow. (Aside.') A very impudent fellow this . 
but he's a character, and I'll humour him a little. 
Sir, my service to you. (Drinks.) 

Hastings. (Aside.) I see this fellow wants to give 
us his company, and forgets that he's an innkeeper, 
before he has learned to be a gentleman. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 193 

Marlow. From the excellence of your cup, my old 
friend, I suppose you have a good deal of business in 
this part of the country. Warm work, nOw and then, 
at elections, I suppose. 

Hardcastle. No, sir, I have long given that vpork 
over. Since our betters have hit upon the expedient 
of electing each other, there is no business ' for us 
that sell ale.' 

Hastings. So, then, you have no trurn for politics, I 
find. 

Hardcastle. Not in the least. There w^as a time, 
indeed, I fretted myself about the mistakes of govern- 
ment, like other people ; but, finding myself every 
day grove more angry, and the government growing 
no better, I left it to mend itself. Since that, I no 
'more trouble my head about Hyder Ally, or Ally 
Cawn, than about Ally Croaker. Sir, my service to 
you. 

Hastings. So that with eating above stairs and 
drinking below, with receiving your friends within 
ana amusing them without, you lead a good, plea- 
sant, bustling life of it. 

Hardcastle. I do stir about - a great deal, tliat's 
certain. Half the differences of the parish are ad- 
justed in this very parlour. 

Marlow. (After drinking.') And you have an ar- 
gument in your cup, old gentleman, better than any^ 
in Westminster-hall. 

Hardcastle. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a 
little philosophy. 

Marlow. (Aside.) Well, this is the first time I ever 
heard of an innkeeper's philosophy. 

Hastings. So, then, like an experienced general, 
you attack them on every quarter. If you find their 
reason manageable, you attack it with your philoso- 
phy ; if you find they have no reason, you attack 
them with this. Here's your health, my philosopher. 
(Drinks.) 

Hardcastle. Good, very good, thank you ; ha! ha! 
ha ! Your generalship puts me in mind of Prince 



194 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Eugene, when he fought the Turks, at the battle of 
Belgrade. You shall hear. 

Marlow. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I be- 
lieve it's almost time to talk about supper. What 
^. has your philosophy got- in the house for supper t 

Hardcastle. For supper, sir! (Aside) Was ever 
such a request to a man in his own house ! 

M-arlow, Yes, sir, supper, sir ; I begin to feel an 
appetite. I shall make devilish work to-night in the 
larder, I promise you. 

Hardcastle, (Aside.) Such a brazen dog sure never 
my eyes beheld. (To him) Why, really, sir, as for 
supper, I can't well tell. My Dorothy and the cook- 
maid settle these things between them. I leave these 
kind of things entirely to them. 

Marlow. You do, do you 1 

Hardcastle. Entirely. By the by, I believe they 
are in actual consultation upon what's for supper this 
moment in the kitchen. 

Marlow. Then I beg they'll admit me as one of 
their privy-council. It's a way I have got. When 
I travel 1 always choose to regulate my own supper. 
Let the cook be called. No offence, 1 hope, sir. 

Hardcastle. O no, sir, none in the least ; yet I 
don't know how, our Bridget, the cook-maid, is not 
very communicative upon these occasions. Should 
we send for her, she might scold us all out of the 
house. 

Hastings. Let's see your list of the larder, then. I 
ask it as a favour. I always match my appetite to 
my bill of fare. 

Marlow. (To Hardcastle, who loohs at them with 
surprise) Sir, he's very right, and it's my way too. 

Hardcastle. Sir, you have a right to command here. 
Here, Roger, bring us the bill of fare for to-night's 
supper : I believe it's drawn out. — Your manner, Mr. 
Hastings, puts me in mind of my uncle. Colonel 
Wallop. It was a saying of his, that no man was 
sure of his supper till he had eaten it. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 1S5 

Enter Roger, 

Hastings. (Aside.) All upon the high rope ! His 
uncle a colonel ! we shall soon hear of his mother 
being a justice of the peace. But let's hear the bill 
of fare. 

Marlow. (Perusing.) What's here 1 For the first 
course ; for the second course ; for the dessert. The 
devil, sir, do you think we have brought down the 
whole Joiners' Company, or the Corporation of Bed- 
ford, to eat up such a supper 1 Two or three little 
things, clean and comfortable, will do. 

Hastings. But let's hear it. 

Marlow. (Reading.) ' For the first course, — at the 
top, a pig, and pruin-sauce.' 

Hastings. Damn your pig, I say. 

Marlow. And damn your pruin-sauce, say I. 

Hardcastle. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are 
hungry, pig with pruin-sauce is very good eating. 

Marlow. ' At the bottom a calf's tongue and 
brains.' 

Hastings, Let your brains be knocked out, my 
good sir, I don't like them. 

Marlow. Or you may clap them on a plate by 
themselves. 

Hardcastle. (Aside.) Their impudence confounds 
me. (To them) Gentlemen, you are my guests, 
make what alterations you please. Is there any thing 
else you wish to retrench, or alter, gentlemen ? 

Marlow, ' Item : A pork pie, a boiled rabbit and 
sausages, a Florentine, a shaking pudding, and a disk 
of tiff — taff^taffety cream !' 

Hastings. Confound your made dishes ; I shall be 
as much at a loss in this house as at a green and 
yellow dinner at the French ambassador's table. I'm 
for plain eating. 

Hardcastle. I'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have 
nothing you like ; but if there be any tiling you have 
a particular fancy to 



J96 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, 

Marlow. Why, really sir, your bill of fare is so ex- 
quisite, that any one part of it is full as good as 
another. Send us what you please. So much for 
Bupper. And now to see that our beds are aired, and 
properly taken care of. 

Mardcastle. I entreat you'll leave all that to me. 
You shall not stir a step, 

Marlow. Leave that to you ! I protest, sir, you 
must excuse me; I always look to these things 
myself. 

Hardcaslle. I must insist, sir, you'll make yourself 
easy on that head. 

Marlow. You see I'm resolved on it. (^Aside) A 
very troublesome fellow this, as ever I met with. 

Hardcastle. Well, sir, I'm resolved at least to at- 
tend you. (Aside) This may be modern modesty, 
but 1 never saw any thing look so like old-fashioned 
impudence. [Eicunt Marhw and Hardcastle. 

Hastings. (Alone.) So I find this fellow's civilities . 
begin to grow troublesome. But who can be angry 

at those assiduities which are meant to please him 1 

Ha! what do I see] Miss Neville, by all that's 
happy ! 

E7iter Miss Neville. 

Miss Neville. My dear Hastings ! To what unex- 
pected good fortune — to what accident, am' I to 
ascribe this happy meeting 1 

Hastings. Rather let me ask the same question, as 
I could never have hoped to meet my dearest Con- 
stance at an inn. 

Miss Neville. An inn 1 sure you mistake : my aunt, 
my guardian, lives here. What could induce you to 
think this house an inn 1 

Hastings. My friend, Mr. Marlow, with whom I 
came down, and I, have been sent here as to an inn, 
I assure you. A young fellow whom we accidentally 
met at a house hard by, directed us hither. 

Miss Neville. Certainly it must be one of my hope- 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.. 197 

ful cousin's tricks, of whom you have heard me talk 
so often ; ha ! ha ! ha ! y 

Haitings. He whom your aunt intends for you 1 he 
of whom I have such just apprehensions 1 

Miss Neville. You have nothing to fear from him, I 
assure you. You'd adore him if you knew how heartily 
he despises me. My aunt knows it too, and has un- 
dertaken to court me for him, and actually begins to 
think she has made a conquest. 

Hastings. Thou dear dissembler ! You must know, 
my Constance, I have just seized this happy oppor- 
tunity of my friend's visit here to get admittance into 
the family. The horses that carried us down are now 
fatigued with their journey, but they'll soon be re- 
freshed ; and, then, if my dearest girl will trust in her 
faithful Hastings, we shall soon be landed in France, 
where even among slaves the laws of marriage are 
respected. 

Miss Neville. I have often told you, that though 
ready to obey you, I yet should leave my little for- 
tune behind with reluctance. The greatest part of it 
was left me by my uncle, the India director, and 
chiefly consists in jewels. I have been for some time 
persuading my aunt to let me wear them. I fancy 
I'm very near succeeding. The instant they are put 
into my possession, you shall find me ready to make 
them and myself yours. 

Hastings. Perish the baubles ! Your person is all I^ 
desire. In the mean time, my friend Marlow must 
not be let into his mistake. I know the strange re- 
serve of his temper is such, that if abruptly informed 
of it, he would instantly quit the house before our plan 
was ripe for execution. 

Miss Neville. But how shall we keep him in the 
deception? — Miss Hardcastle is just returned from 
walking — What if we still continue to deceive him? 
This, this way ' [They confer. 

Enter Marlow. 

Marlow. The assiduities of these good people tease 
me beyond bearing. My host stems to think it ill 



198 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

manners to leave me alone, and so he claps not only 
himself, but his old-fashioned wife on my back. They 
talk of coming to sup with us too ; and then, I suppose, 
we are to run the gauntlet through all the rest of the 
family. — What have we got here ] 

Hastings. My dear Charles ! Let me congratulate 
you — The most fortunate accident! — Who do you 
think is just alighted 1 

Marlow. Cannot guess. 

Hastings. Our mistresses, boy. Miss Hardcastle and 
Miss Neville. Give me leave to introduce Miss Con- 
stance Neville to your acquaintance. Happening to 
dine in the neighbourhood, they called on their return 
to take fresh horses here. Miss Hardcastle has just 
slept into the next room, and will be back in an instant. 
Wasn't it lucky ? eh ! 

Marlow. (^Aside.) I have been mortified enough of 
all conscience, and here comes something to complete 
my embarrassment. 

Hastings. Well, but wasn't it the most fortunate 
thing in the world 1 

Marlow. Oh, yes. Very fortunate — a most joyful 
encounter. But our dresses, George, you know, are 
in disorder — What if we should postpone the happi- 
ness till to-morrow "i — To-morrow at her own house — 
It will be every bit as convenient — and rather more 
respectful — To-morrow let it be. [Offering to go. 

Miss Neville. By no means, sir. Your ceremony 
will displease her. The disorder of your dress will 
shew the ardour of your impatience. Besides, she 
knows you are in the house, and will permit you to 
see her. 

Marlow. Oh, the devil ! How shall I support if! — 
Hem ! hem ! Hastings, you must not go. You are 
to assist me, you know I shall be confoundedly ridi- 
culous. Yet hang it 1 I'll take courage. Hem ! 

Hastings. Pshaw, man 1 it's but the first plunge, 
and all's over. She's bu* a wontan, you know. 

Marhw. And of all women, she that I dread most 
to encounter. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 199 

Enter Miss Hardcastle, as returned from walking. 

Hastings. (^Introducing them.') Miss Hardcastle, 
Mr. Marlow, I'm proud of bringing two persons of 
such merit together, that only want to know, to esteem 
each other. 

Miss Hardcastle. (Aside} Now for meeting my 
modest gentleman with a demure face, and quite in his 
Qwn manner. (After a pause, in which he appears very 
uneasy and disconcerted) I'm glad of your safe arrival 
sir. I'm told you had some accidents by the way. 

Marlow. Only a few, madam. Yes, we had some 
Yes, madam, a good many accidents, but should be 
sorry — madam — or rather glad of any accidents — that 
are so agreeably concluded. Hem ! 

Hastings. (To him) You never spoke better in 
your whole life. Keep it up, and I'll insure you the 
victory. ^ 

Miss Hardcastle. I'm afraid you flatter, sir. You 
that have seen so much of the finest company, cau 
find little entertainment in an obscure corner of the 
country. 

Ma7-low. (Gathering cotirage.) I have lived, indeed, 
in the world, madam ; but I have kept very little 
company. I have been but an observer upon life, 
madam, while others were enjoying it. 

Miss Neville. But that, I am told, is the way to 
enjoy it at last. 

Hastings. (To him) Cicero never spoke better. 
Once more, and you are confirmed in assurance for 
ever. 

Marlow. ( To him) Hem ! stand by me then, and 
when I'm down, throw in a word or two to set me up 
again. 

Miss Hardcastle. An observer, like you, upon life, 
were, I fear, disagreeably employed, since you must 
have had much more to censure than to approve. 

Marlow. Pardon me, madam. I was always willing 
to be amused. The folly of most people is rather an 
object of mirth than uner.Jsiness. 



200 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Hastings. (7o hini) Bravo, bravo. Never spoke 
so well in your whole life. Well, Bliss Hardcastle, 1 
see that you and Mr. Marlovv are going to be very 
good company. I believe our being here will but 
embarrass the interview. 

Marlow. Not in the least, Mr. Hastings. We like 
your company of all things. {To him) Zounds! 
George, sure you won't gol how can you leave us? 

Haitings. Our presence will but spoil conversation, 
so we'll retire to the next room. (To him) You don't 
consider, man, that we are to manage a little tete-a- 
tete of our own. \_Exeunt. 

Miss Hardcastle. (After a pause.) But you have 
not been wholly an observer, I presume, sir : the 
ladies, I should hope, have employed some part of 
your addresses. 

Mailoio. (Relapsing into timidity.) Pardon me, 
madam, 1 — I — I — as yet have studied — only — to — 
deserve them. 

Miss Hardcastle. And that, some say, is the very 
worst way to obtain them. 

Marlow. Perhaps so, madam. But I love to con- 
verse only with the more grave and sensible part of 
the sex — But I'm afraid 1 grow tiresome. 

Miss Hardcastle. Not at all, sir; there is nothing I 
like so much as grave conversation myself; I could 
hear it for ever. Indeed I have often been surprised 
how a man of sentiment could ever admire those light 
airy pleasures, where nothing reaches the heart. 

Marlow. It's a disease of the mind, madam. 

In the variety of tastes there must be some who, 
wanting a relish for um — u — um — 

Miss Hardcastle, I understand you, sir. There 
must be some who, wanting a relish for refined plea- 
sures, pretend to despise what they are incapable of 
tasting. 

Marlow. My meaning, madam, but infinitely better 
expressed. And I can't help observing a 

Miss Hardcastle. (Aside) Who could ever suppose 
this fellow impudent upon some occasions ! (To him) 
You were going to observe, sir 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 201 

3Iarlow, I was observing, madam — I protest, 
madam, I forget what I was going to observe. 

Miss Hardcastle. (^Aside) 1 vow and so do I. (To 
him) You were observing, sir, that in this age of 
hypocrisy — something about hypocrisy, sir. 

Marloit). Yes, madam. In this age of hypocrisy, 
there are few who, upon strict inquiry, do not — a — 

Miss Hardcastle. I understand you perfectly, sir. 

Mar low. (Aside) Egad ! and that's more than I 
do myself. 

Miss Hardcastle. You mean that, in this hypocriti- 
cal age, there are few that do not condemn in public 
what they practise in private, and think they pay every 
debt to virtue when they praise it. 

Marlow. True, madam ; those who have most virtue 
in their mouths, have least of it in their bosoms. But 
I'm sure I tire you, madam. 

Miss Hardcastle. Not in the least, sir ; there's some- 
thing so agreeable and spirited in your manner, such 
life and force — Pray, sir, go on. 

Marlow. Yes, madam, I was saying that there 

are some occasions — when a total want of courage, 

madam, destroys all the and puts us upon — 

a — a — a 

Miss Hardcastle. I agree, with you entirely : a want 
of courage upon some occasions, assumes the appear- 
ance of ignorance, and betrays us when we most want 
to excel. I beg you'll proceed. 

Marlow. Yes,madam. Morallyspeaking,madam — 
but I see Miss Neville expecting us in the next room. 
I would not intrude for the world. 

Miss Hardcastle. I protest, sir, I never was more 
agreeably entertained in all my life. Pray go on. 

Marlow. Yes, madam, I was But she beckons 

us to join her. Madam, shall I do myself the honour 
to attend you 1 

Miss Hardcastle. Well, then, I'll follow. 

Marhw. (^Aside) This pretty smooth dialogue has 
done for me. [Exit, 

K2 



202 SHK STOOPS TO COf Q'J&R. 

Miss K:rdcastle. (Alone.) ll-i '-. ha ! ha i Was 
there ever such a sober sentimeut'.l iutcrview ! I'dpi 
certain he scarce looked in my f^ce the whole time, 
i'et the fellow, but for his unaccountable bashfulness, 
is pretty well too. He has good sense, but then so 
buried in his fears, that it fatigues one more than ig- 
norance. If I could teach him a little confidence, it 
would be doing somebody that I know of a piece ol 
service. But who is that somebody 1 That, faith, ij 
a question I can scarce answer. [Exit. 

Enter Tony and Miss Neville, followed by Mrs, Hard- 
castle and Hastings. 

Tony. What do you follow me for, cousin Con 1 
T wonder you're not ashamed to be so very engaging. 

Miss Neville. I hope, cousin, one may speak to one's 
own relations, and not be to blame. 

Teny. Ay, but I know what sort of a relation you 
want to make me though ; but it won't do. I telJ 
you, cousin Con, it won't do ; so I beg you'll keep 
your distance — I want no nearer relationship. 

[^She follows, coquetting him to the back scene, 

Mrs. Hardcabtle. Well, I vow, Mr. Hastings, you 
are very entertaining. There's nothing in the world 
1 love to talk of so much as LondoTi, and the fashions; 
though I was never there myself. 

Mastings. Never there ! You amaze me !' From 
your air and manner, I concluded you had been bred 
all your life either at Ranelagh, &.. James's, or Tower 
Wharf. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, sir, you're only pleased to 
say so. We country persons can have no manner at 
all. I'm in love with the town, and that serves to 
raise me above some of our neighbouring rustics ; but 
who can have a manner, that has never seen the Pan- 
theon, the Grotto Gardens, the Borough, and such 
places, where the nobility chiefly resort % All I can 
do is to enjoy London at second-hand. I take care 
to know every tete-a-tete from the Scandalous Maga- 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 203 

zine, and have all the fashions, as they come out, in 
a letter from the two Miss Rickets of Crooked Lane. 
Pray, how do you like this head, Mr. Hastings 1 . 

Hastings. Extremely elegant and degag6e, upon 
my word, madam. Your friseur is a Frenchman, I 
suppose 1 

Mrs. Hardcastle. I protest, I dressed it myself from 
a print in the Ladies' Memorandum-book for the last 
year. 

Hastings. Indeed ! Such a head in a side-box at 
the play-house, would draw as many gazers as my 
Lady Mayoress at a city ball. 

M^s. Hurdcastle. I vow, since inoculation began, 
there is no such thing to be seen as a plain woman ; 
so one must dress a little particular, or one may escape 
in the crovvd. 

Haitings. But that can never be your case, madam, 
in any dress. (Bowing.} 

Mrs. Hardcastlc. Yet, what signifies my dressing, 
when I have such a piece of antiquity by my side as 
Mr. Hardcastle 1 all 1 can say will never argue down 
a single button from his clothes. I have often wanted 
him to throw off his great flaxen wig, and where he 
was bald, to plaster it over, like my Lord Pately, 
with powder. 

Hastings. You are right, madam ; for, as among 
the ladies there are none ugly, so among the men 
there are none old. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. But what do you think his an- 
swer was? Why, with his usual Gothic vivacity, he 
said I only wanted him to throw off his wig to con- 
vert it into a tite for my own wearing. 

Hastings. Intolerable ! At your age you may wear 
what you please, and it must become you. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Pray, Mr. Hastings, what do you 
take to be the most fashionable age about town 1 

Hastings. Some time ago, forty was all the mode ; 
but I'm told the ladies intend to bring up fifty for the 
ensuing wintet. 



Uz 



204 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Seriously 1 Then I shall be too 
young for the fashion. 

Hastings. No lady begins now to put on jewels till 
she's past forty. For instance, miss there, in a polite 
circle, would be considered as a child — a mere maker 
of samplers. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. And yet, my niece thinks herself 
as much a woman, and is as fond of jewels, as the 
oldest of us all. 

Hastings, Your niece, is she? And that young 
gentleman — a brother of yours, I should presume ? 

Mrs. Hardcastle. My son, sir. They are contracted 
to each other. Observe their little sports. They fall 
in and out ten times a-day, as if they were man and 
wife already. (^To them) Well, Tony, child, what 
soft things are you saying to your cousin Constance 
this evening 1 

Tony. I have been saying no soft things ; but that 
it's very hard to be followed about so. Ecod I I've 
not a place in the house now that's left to myself, but 
the stable. 

Mr*, Hardcastle. Never mind him. Con, my dear : 
he's in another story behind your back. 

Miss Neville. There's something generous in my 
cousin's manner. He falls out before faces, to be for- 
given in private. 

Tony. That's a damned confounded — crack. , 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Ah ! he's a sly one. Don't you 
think they're like each other about the mouth, Mr. 
Hastings 1 The Blenkinsop mouth to a T. They're 
of a size too. Back to back, my pretties, that Mr. 
Hastings may see you. Come, Tony. 

Tony. You had as good not make me, I tell you. 

(Measuring.^ 

Miss Neville. O lud ! he has almost cracked my 
head. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, the monster ! for shames 
Tony. You a man, and beheve so ! 

Tony. If I'm a man, let me have my fortin. Ecod ! 
I'll not be made a fool of no longer. 



r 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 205 

M»'s. Hardcastle. Is this, ungrateful boy, all that 
I'm to get for the pains I have taken in your educa- 
tion 1 1 that have rocked you in your cradle, and 
fed that pretty mouth with a spoon I Did not I work 
that waistcoat to make you genteel ? Did not I pre- 
scribe for you every day, and weep while the receipt 
was operatmg ? 

Tony. Ecod ! you had reason to weep, for you 
have been dosing me ever since I was born. I have 
gone through svery receipt in the Complete House- 
wife ten times over ; and you have thoughts of cours- 
ing me through Quincey next spring. But, ecod ! I 
tell you, I'll not be made a fool of no longer. 

Mrs. Hardcastle, Wasn't it all for your good, 
viper 1. Wasn't it all for your good ? 

Tony. I wish you'd let me and my good alone, 
then. Snubbing this way when I'm in spirits ! If I'm 
to have any good, let it come of itself; not to keep 
dinging it, dinging it into one so. 

Mrs. Hardcastle, That's false ; I never see you 
when you're in spirits. No, Tony, you then go to 
the alehouse or kennel. I'm never to be delighted 
with your agreeable wild notes, unfeeling monster ! 

Tony. Ecod ! mamma, your own notes are the 
wildest of the two. 

Mrs, Hardcastle. Was ever the like 1 But I see he 
wants to break my heart ; I see he does. 

Hastings. Dear madam, permit me to lecture the 
young gentleman a little. I'm certain I can per- 
suade him to his duty. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, I must retire. Come, 
Constance, my love. You see, Mr. Hastings, the 
wretchedness of my situation : was ever poor woman 
so plagued with a dear, sweet, pretty, provoking, ua- 
dutiful boy! \^Exeunt Airs. Hardcastle and Miss Neville. 

Tony, (^Singing.') 

There was a young man riding by. 
And fain would have his will. > 

Rang do didlo dee. / 



206 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Don't mind her. Let her cry. It's the comfort of 
her h'eart. I have seen her and sister cry over a book 
for an hour together; and they said they liked the 
book the better the more it made them cry. 

Hastings. Then you're no friend to the ladies, I 
find, my pretty young gentleman l 

Tony. That's as 1 find 'um. 

Hastings. Not to her of your mother's choosing, I 
dare answer 1 And yet she appears to me a pretty, 
well-tempered girl. 

Tony. That's because you don't know her as well 
as I. Ecod ! I know every inch about her ; and 
there's not a more bitter cantanckerous toad in all 
Christendom. ^ 

Hastings. (Adde) Pretty encouragement this for 
a lover ! 

Tony. I have seen her since the height of that. 
She has as many tricks as a hare in a thicket, or a colt 
the first day's breaking. 

Hastings. To me slie appears sensible and silent. 

Tony. Ay, before company. But when she's with 
her playmates, she's as loud as a hog in a gate. 

Hastings. But th'ere is a meek modesty about her 
that charms me. • 

Tony. Yes, but curb her never so little, she kicks 
up, and you're flung in a ditch. 

Hasti7igs. Well, but you must allow her a little 
beauty. — Yes, you must allow her some beauty.. 

Tony. Bandbox ! She's all a made-up thing, niun. 
Ah ! could you but see Bet Bouncer of these parts, 
you might then talk of beauty. Ecod ! she has two 
eyes as black as sloes, and cheeks as broad and red 
as a pulpit cushion. • She'd make two of she. 

Hastings. Well, what say you to a friend that 
would take th;^s bitter bargain off your hands 1 

Tony. Anan ! 

Hastings. Would you thank him that would take 
Miss Neville, and leave you to happiness and your 
dear Betsey 1 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 207 

Tony. Ay ; but where is there such a friend— for 
who would take her 1 

Hustings. I am he. If you but assist me, I'll en- 
gage to whip her off to France, and you shall never 
hear more of her. 

Tony. Assist you ! Ecod I will to the last drop of 
my blood. I'll clap a pair of horses to your chaise 
that shall trundle you off" in a twinkling, and may be 
get you a part of her fortin beside, in jewels, that you 
little dream of. 

Hastings. My dear squire, this looks like a lad of 
spirit. 

Tony. Come along, then, and you shall see more 
of my spirit before you have donewith me. 

(Singing.') 
vVe are the boys. 
That fears no noise. 
Where the thundering cannons roar. 

[Exeunt, 



ACT T H I H D. 

Enter Hardcastle. 
liardcastle. What could my old friend Sir Charles 
mean by recommending his son as the modestest 
young man in town 1 To me he appears the most 
impudent piece of brass that ever spoke with a tongue. 
He has taken possession of the easy chair by the fire- 
side already. He took off his boots in the parlour, 
and desired me to see them taken care of. I'm de- 
sirous to know how his impudence affects my dauo-hter. 
She will certainly be shocked at it. ° 

Enter Miss Hardcastle, plainly dressed. 
Hardcastle. Well, my Kate, I see you have changed 
your dress, as I bid you ; and yet, I believe, there 
was no great occasion. 



208 SKE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Miss Hardciistle. I find such a pleasure, sir, in 
obeying- your coimnands, that I take care to observe 
them vvithout ever debating their propriety. 

Hardcastie. And yet Kate, I sometimes give you 
some cause, particularly when I reconnmended my 
modest gentleman to you as a lover to-day 

Miss Hardcastie. You taught me to expect some- 
thing extraordinary, and I find the original exceeds the 
description. 

Hardcastie. I was never so surprised in my life f— 
He has quite confounded all my faculties. 

Miss Hardcastie. I never saw any thing like it ; and 
a man of the world too ! 

Hardcastie. Ay, he learned it all abroad— what a 
fool was I, to think a young man could learn modesty 
by travelling. He might as soon learn wit at a mas- 
querade. 

Miss Hardcastie. It seems all natufal to him. 
Hardcastie. A good deal assisted by bad company 
and a French dancing-master. 

Miss Hardcastie. Sure you mistake, papa. A 
French dancing-master could never have taught him 
that timid look — that awkward address — that bashful 
manner. 

Hardcastie. Whose look 1 whose manner, child 1 
Miss Hardcastie. Mr. Marlow's : his mauVMse hmte, 
his timidity, struck me at the first sight. 

Hardcastie. Then your first sight deceived you'i tor 
I think him one of the most brazen first sights that 
ever astonished my senses. 

Miss Hardcastie. Sure, sir, you rally! I never saw 
any one so modest. 

Hardcastie. And can you be serious! I never saw 
such a bouncing, swaggering puppy since 1 was born. 
Bully Dawson was but a fool to him. 

Miss Hardcastie. Surprising ! He met me with a 
respectful bow, a stammering voice, and a look fixed 
on the ground. 

Hardcastie. He met me with a loud voice, a lordly 
air, and a familiarity that made my blood freeze again. 



SHE STOOl'S TO CtJNQl'KR. 209 

Mioi llnrdcusile. He ireaieJ me with diffiJence and 
respect ; censured the nianueis of the age ; admired 
the prudence of girls that never laughed , tired me 
with apologies for being tiresome , tlien left the room 
with a bow, and ' Madam, I would not for the world 
detain you.' 

Ha'dcastle. He spoke to me as if he knew me all 
his life before , asked twenty questions, and never 
waited for an answer , interrupted my best remarks 
with some silly pun , and when I was in my best story 
of the Duke of Marlboiough and Prince Kugene, he 
asked if I had not a good liand at making punch. 
Yes, Kate, he asked your father if he was a maker of 
punch . 

Miss Ilardcastle. One of us must certainly be mis- 
taken. 

Ilardcastle. If he be what he has shewn himself, 
I'm determined he shall never have my consent. 

Miss Haidcastle And if he be the sullen thing I 
take him, he shall never have mine. 

Ha'-dcaitle. In one thing, then, we are agreed — to 
reject him. 

Miis Hardcastle. Yes — but upon conditions. For 
if you should find him less impudent, and I more pre- 
suming ; if you find him more respectful, and I more 
importunate — I don't know — the fellow is well enough 
for a man — certainly we don't meet many such at a 
horse-race in the country. 

Hiirdcastle. If we should find him so But that's 

impossible. The first appearance has done my busi- 
ness. I'm seldom deceived in that. 

Miss Hardcastle. And yet there may be many good 
qualities under tliat first appearance. 

Hardcditle. Ay, when a girl finds a fellow's outside 
to her taste, she then sets about guessing the rest of 
his furniture. With her a smooth face stands for good 
sense, and a genteel figure for every virtue. 

Miss Hardcastle. I hope, sir, a conversation begun 
with a compliment to my good sense, won't end with 
a sneer at my understanding 1 



210 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Hardcastle. Pardon me, Kate. But if young Mr. 
Brazen can find the art of reconciling contradictions, 
he may please us both, perhaps. 

Miss Hardcastle. And as one of us must be mistaken, 
what if we go to make farther discoveries 1 

Hardcastle, Agreed. But depend on't, I'm in the 
right. 

Miss Hardcastle. And, depend on't, I'm not much 
m the wrong. [Exewut, 

Enter Tony, running in v)ith a casket. 

Tony. Ecod ! I have got them. Here they are* 
My cousin Con's necklaces, bobs and all. My mother 
shan't cheat the poor souls out of their fortin neither. 
O my genus, is that you 1 

Enter Hastings, 

Hastings. My dear friend, how have you managed 
with your mother ? I hope you have amused her with 
pretending love for your cousin, and that you are 
willing to be reconciled at last 1 Our horses will be re- 
freshed in a short time, and we shall soon be ready to 
set off. 

Tgny. And here's something to bear your charges 
by the way (giving the casket') — your sweetheart's 
jewels. Keep them ; and hang those, I say, that 
would rob you of one of them. 

Hastings. But how have you procured them from 
your mother 1 

Tuny. Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no 
fibs. I procured them by the rule of thumb. If I 
had not a key to every drawer in my mother's bureau, 
how could I go to the alehouse so often as I do ? An 
honest man may rob himself of his own at any time. 

Hastings, Thousands do it every day. But, to be 
plain with you. Miss Neville is endeavouring to pro- 
cure them from her aunt this very instant. If she 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 



211 



succeeds, it will be the most delicate way, at least, of 
obtaining them. 

Tmiy. Well, keep them, till you know how it will 
be. But I know how it will be well enough, — she'd 
as soon part with the only sound tooth in her head. 

Hastings. But I dread the effects of her resentment, 
when she finds she has lost them. 

Tony. Never you mind her resentment, leave me to 
manage that. I don't value her resentment the bounce 
of a cracker. Zounds ! here they are. Morrice I 
Prance ! [^Extt Hastings. 



Tony, Mrs. Hardcastle, and Miss Neville. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Indeed, Constance, you amaze 
me. Such a girl as you wast jewels 1 It will be 
time enough for jewels, my dear, twenty years hence, 
wnen your beauty begins to want repairs. 

Miss Neville. But what will repair beauty at forty, 
will certainly improve it at twenty, madam. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Yours, my dear, can admit of 
none. That natural blush is beyond a thousand or- 
naments. Besides, child, jewels are quite out at pre- 
sent. Don't you see half the ladies of our acquaint- 
ance, my Lady Kill-daylight, and Mrs. Crump, and 
the rest of them, carry their jewels to town, and bring 
nothing but paste and marcasites back"! 

Miss Neville. But who knows, madam, but some- 
body that shall be nameless- would like me best with 
all my little finery about me 1 

Mrs. Hm-dcastle. Consult your glass, my dear, and 
then see if, with such a pair of eyes, you want any 
better sparklers. What do you think, Tony, my 
de»r? Does your cousin Con want any jewels in 
your eyes to set off her beauty l 

Tony. That's as hereafter may be. 

Miss Neville. My dear aunt, if you knew how it 
would oblige me. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. A parcel of old-fashioned rose and 
lable-cut things. They would make you look like 



212 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUKR,. 

the court of King Solomon at a puppet-show. Be- 
sides, I believe 1 can't readily come at them. They 
may be missing for aught I know to the contrary. 

Tony. (^Apart to Mrs. Hardcastle.) Then why don't 
you teJl her so at once, as she's so longing for them 1 
Tell her they're lo^t. It's the only way to quiet her. 
Say they're lost, and call me to bear witness. 

Mrs. Hardoastte. (Apart to Tony) You know, my 
dear, I'm only keeping them for you. So if i say 
they're gone, you'll bear me witness, will you ? He ! 
he! he! 

Tony. Never fear me. Ecod ! I'll say I saw them 
taken out with my own eyes. 

Miss Neville. 1 desire them but for a day, madam — 
just to be permitted to shew them as relics, and then 
they may be locked up again. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. To be plain with you, my dear 
Constance, if I could find them you should have 
them. They're missing, I assure you. Lost, for 
aught I know ; but we must have patience whenever 
they are. 

Miss Neville. I'll not believe it ; this is but a shallow 
pretence to deny me. I know they are too valuable 
to be so slightly kept, and as you are to answer for 
the loss • 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Don't be alarmed, Constance. If 
they be lost, I must restore an equivalent. But my 
son knows they are missing, and not to be found.' 

Tony. That I can bear witness to. They are miss- 
ing, and not to be found ; I'll take my oath on't. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. You must learn resignation, my 
dear; for though we lose our fortune, yet we should 
not lose our patience. See me, how calm I am. 

Miss 'Neville. Ay, people are generally calm at the 
mis-fortunes of others. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Now, I wonder a girl of your 
good sense should waste a thought upon such trum- 
pery. We shall soon find them ; and in the mean time 
you shall make use of my garnets till your jewels be 
found. 



SHE STOOPS 10 CONQUER. 213 

Miss Neville. I detest garnets. 

Mrs.Hardcastle. The most becoming things in the 
world to set oiF a clear complexion. You have often 
seen how well they look upon me. You shall have 
them. ' [Exit. 

Miss Neville. I dislike them of all things. You 
shan't stir. Was ever any thing so provoking, to 
mislay my own jewels, and force me to wear her 
trumpery. 

Tony. Don't be a fool. If she gives you the gar- 
nets, take what you can get. The jewels are your 
own already. I have stolen them out of her bureau, 
and she does not know it. Fly to your spark ; he'll 
tell you more of the matter. Leave me to manage her. 

Miss Neville. My dear cousin I 

Tmy. Vanish. She's here, and has missed them 
already. [Exit Miss Neville.} Zounds! how she 
fidgets and spits about like a Catharine wheel ! 

Enter Mrs. Hardcastle, 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Confusion ! thieves ! robbers ! we 
are cheated, plundered, broke open, undone. 

Tony. What's the matter, what's the matter, mam- 
ma "! 1 hope nothing has happened to any of the good 
family ? 

Mrs.Hardcastle. We are robbed. My bureau has 
been broken open, the jewels taken out, and I'm 
undone. 

Tony. Oh! is that all? Ha! ha! ha! By the 
laws, 1 never saw it better acted in my life. Ecod, I 
thoua;ht you was ruined in earnest, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Why, boy, I am ruined in earnest. 
My bureau has been broken open, and all taken away. 

Tony. Stick to that, ha ! ha ! ha ! stick to that. 
Til bear witness, you know ! call me to bear witness. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. I tell you, Tony, by all that's 
precious, the jewels are gone, and I shall be ruined 
for ever. 



214 Slll^ SfdOl'S TO CONQi.'KR. 

T^my. Sure 1 know they are gone, anJ I am to 
say so. 

M-'-s. llardcasttc. My dearest Tony, but hear me. 
They're gone, I say- 

Tony. J5y the laws, mDinma, you make me for to 
laugh, ha ! ha! 1 know who took them well eoough, 
ha : ha ! ha ! 

ISlrs. tlardcastle. Was iliere ever such a block- 
hea'I, that can't tell the dilTerence between jest and 
earne.<t ! 1 tell you 1 'ni not in jest, booby. 

Toni/, 'i'liat's liglit, that's rij^lit ; you must be in a 
bitlar passion, and then nobody will suspect either 
of us. I'll beat witness that they are gone. 

Mrs. Hardcastte. AVas there ever sucli a rross- 
grained brute, that won't hear me ! Can you bear 
witness that you're no better than a fool? \V as ever 
poor woman so beset with fools on one hand, and 
thieves on the other ! 

Tony. I can bear witness to that. 

Mrs. lla^dcaiite. Bear witness again, you block- 
head, you, and I'll turn you oui of the room directly, 
RIy poor niece, what will become of her! Do you 
laugii, you unfeeling brute, as if you enjoyed mv 
distress ! 

Tony. 1 can bear witness to that. 

Mrs. llardcaiile. Do you insult me, monster ? I'll 
teach you to vex your mother, I will ! 

Tony. I can bear witness to that, {lie runs off, she 
follows him.) 

Enter Miss llardcastle and Maid. 

Miss llardcastle. What an unaccountable creature 
is that brother of mine, to send tiiem to the house as 
an inn ; ha! ha I I don't wonder at his impudence. 

Maid. But what is mo^e, madam, the young gen- 
tleman, as you passed by in your present dress, asked 
me if you were the bar-maid, lie mistook you for »he 
bar-maid, madam ! 

Miss Hardcastle. Did he ? Then, as 1 live, I'm 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 215 

resolved to keep up the delusion. Tell me, Pimple, 
how do you like my present dress i. Don't you think 
2 look something like Cherry in the Beaux' Stratagem ? 
Maid. It's the dress, madam, that every lady wears 
in the country, but when she visits or receives com- 
pany. 

Miss Hardcastle. And are you sure he does not 
remember my face or person t 
Maid. Certain of it. 

Miss Hardcastle. I vow I thought so ; for thou<jh 
we spoke for some time together, yet his fears we°re 
such that he never once looked up during the inter- 
view. Indeed, if he had, my bonnet would have 
kept him from seeing me. 

Maid. But what do you hope from keeping him in 
his mistake ? 

Miss Hardcastle. In the first place, I shall be seen, 
and that is no small advantage to a girl who brino-g 
ner face to market. Then 1 shall perhaps make an 
acquaintance, and that's no small victory gained over 
one who never addresses any but the wildest of her 
sex. But my chief aim is to take my gentleman off 
his guard, and, like an invisible champion of romance 
examine the giant's force before I offer to combat. ' 
Maid. But are you sure you can act your part, 'and 
disguise your voice so that he may mistake that, as he 
nas already mistaken your person 1 

Miss Hardcastle. Never fear me. I think I have 

<?ot the true bar cant— Did your honour call "! Attend 

the Lion there.— Pipes and tobacco for the Ano-el. 

The Lamb has been outrageous this half hour. ° 
Maid. It will do, madam. But he's here. 

[Exit Maid, 



Enter Marlow. 

Marlow. What a bawling in every part of the house' 
1 nave scarce a moment's repose. If I go to the best 
room, there 1 find my host and his story ; if I fly to 
the gallery, there we have my hostess with her curtsey 



«-o SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

down to the ground. I have at last got a moment to 

Hiyself, and now for recollection. [Walks and musis. 

M:ss Hardcastle. Did you call, sir? Did your 
honour call ? 

Marlow. (Musing.) As for Miss Hardcastle, she's 
too grave and sentimental for me. 

Miss Hardcastle. Did your honour call ? 

[She still places herself before him, 
he turning away, 

Martow. No, child. (Musing) Besi^des, from the 
glimpse I had of her, I think she squints. 

Miss Hardcastle. I'm sure, sir, I heard the bell 
ring. 

Marlow. No, no. (Musing) I have pleased my 
father, however, by coming down, and I'll to-morrow 
please myself by returning. (Taking out his tablets and 
perusing.) 

Miss Hardcastle. Perhaps the other gentleman 
called, sir 1 

Marlow. I tell you no. 

Miss Hardcastle. I should be glad to know, sir : we 
have such a parcel of servants. 

Marlow. No, no, I tell you. (Looks full in her face) 
Yes, child, I think I did call. I wanted— I wanted 
— I vow, child, you are vastly handsome. 

Miss Hardcastle. O la, sir, you'll make one 
ashamed. 

Marlow. Never saw a more sprightly malicious eye. 
Yes, yes, my dear, I did call. Have you got any of 
your — a — what d'ye call it, in the house ] 

Miss Hardcastle. No, sir, we have been out of ihat 
these ten days. 

Mariow. One may call in this house, I find, to 
very little purpose. Suppose I should call for a taste, 
just by way of trial, of the nectar of your lips, per- 
haps I might be disappointed in that too. | i j j 

Miss Hardcastle. Nectar! nectar! That's a iiquor | if '^ 
there's no call for in these parts. French, I suDOOse. r""'^ ) 
We keep no French wines here, sir. | y^ 

Marlow. Of true English growth, I assure yoa. ^ 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 217 

Miss Hardcastle. Then it's odd I should not know 
it. We brew all sorts of wines in this house, and I 
have lived here these eighteen years. 

Martow. Eighteen years ! Why, one would think, 
child, you kept the bar before you were born. How 
old are you ? 

Miss Hardcastle. Oh, sir, I must not tell my age. 
They say women and music should never be dated. 

Marloui. To guess at this distance, you can't be 
much above forty. (^Approaching) Yet nearer, I 
don't think so much. {Apprpoching) By coming 
close to some women, they look younger still ; but 
when we come very close indeed — (^Attempting to kiss 
her.) 

Miss Hardcastle. Pray, sir, keep your distance. One 
would think you wanted to know one's age as they do 
horses, by mark of mouth. 

Marlow. I protest, child, you use me extremely ill. 
If you keep me at this distance, how is it possible you 
and I can ever be acquainted ? 

Miss Hardcastle. And who wants to be acquainted 
with you ] I want no such acquaintance, not I. I'm 
sure you did not treat Miss Hardcastle, that was here 
a while ago, in this obstropalous manner. I'll war- 
rant me, before her you looked dashed, and kept 
bowing to the ground, and talked, for all the world, 
as if you were before a justice of the peace. 

Marlow. (Aside) Egad, she has hit it, sure enough ! 
(To her) In awe of her, child ? Ha! ha ! ha ! A 
mere awkward, squinting thing ! No, no. I find you 
don't know me. I laughed and rallied her a little ; 
but I was unwilling to be too severe. No, I could 
not be too severe, curse me ! 

Miss Hardcastle. Oh, then, sir, you are a favourite, 
1 find, among the ladies 1 

Marlow. Yes, my dear, a great favourite. And 
yet, hang me, I don't see what they find in me to 
follow. At the ladies' club in town I'm called their 
agreeable Rattle. Rattle, child, is not my real name, 
but one I'm known by. My name is Solomons ; Mr. 
L 



218 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Solomons, my dear, at your service. (p_ffering to 
salurle her.) 

Misi Hardcastle. Hold, sir, you are introducing me 
to your club, not to yourself. And you're so great a 
favourite there, you say 1 

Mui'low. Yes, my dear. There's Mrs. Mantrap, 
Lady Betty Blackleg, the Countess of Sligo, Mrs. 
Langhorns, old Miss Biddy Buckskin, and your 
humble servant, keep up the spirit of the place. 

Miss Hardcastle. Then it's a very merry place, I 
suppose "i 

Marlow. Yes, as merry as cards, suppers, vi^ine, and 
old women can make us. 

jljiss Hardcastle. And their agreeable E-attle, ha ! 
ha ! iia ! 

3Iarlow. {Aside) Egad ! I don't quite like this 
chit. She looks knowing, methin'ks. You laugh, 
child ? 

Miss Hardcastle. I can't but laugh to think what 
time they all have for minding their work, or their 
family. 

Marlow. (Aside^ All's well ; she don't laugh at 
me. {To her) Do you ever work, child l 

Miss Hardcastle. Aye, sure. There's not a screen 
or a quilt in the whole house but what can bear wit- 
ness to that. 

Marlow. Odso ! then you must shew me your em- 
broidery. I embroider and draw patterns myself a 
little. If you want a judge of your work, you must 
apply to me. {Seizing her hand.) 

Miss Hardcastle. Ay, but the colours don't look 
well by candle-light. You shall see all in the morn- 
ing. {Struggling.) 

Marlow. And why not now, my angel? Such 
beauty fires beyond the power of resistance. Pshaw ! 
the father here ! My old luck : 1 never nicked seven 
that I did not throw ames ace three tim^s following.* 

[Exit Marhw. 

• Ames aco, or anibs ace, is two ares t'.irnwn at the scnmc time on 
two dice. As seven is the mdiji, to llirow uiiies ace tlirice ruunintf. 



SHE STOO.VS TO CO;.^QtER. 219 



Enter Hardcastle, who stands in surprise. 

y^ Hardcastle. So, madam. So I find this is your 
modest lover. This is your humble admirer, that 
kept his eyes fixed on the ground, and only adored at 
humble distance. Kate, Kate, art thou not ashamed 
to deceive your father so 1 

Miss Hardcastle. Never trust me, dear papa, but 
he's still the modest man I first took him for ; you'll 
be convinced of it as well as I, 

Hardcastle, By the hand of my body, T believe his 
impudence is infectious ! Didn't I see him seize your 
hand 1 Didn't I see him hawl you about like a milk- 
maid'! And now you talk of his respect and his 
modesty, forsooth! 

Miss Hardcastle. But if I shortly convince you of 
his modesty, that he has only the faults that will pass 
off with time, and the virtues that will improve with 
age, I hope you'll forgive him. / 

Hardcastle. The girl would actually make one run 
mad ! I tell you I'll not be convinced. I am con- 
vinced. He has scarcely been three hours in the 
house, and he has already encroached on all my pre- 
rogatives. You may like his impudence, and call it 
modesty ; but my son-in-law, madam, must have 
very different qualifications. 

Miss Hardcastle. Sir, I ask but this night to con- 
vince you. 

Hardcastle. You shall not have half the time, for 
I have thoughts of turning him out this very hour. 

Miss Hardcastle. Give me that hour, then, and I 
hope to satisfy you. 

Hardcastle. Well, an hour let it be then. But V\\ 
have no trifling with your father. All fair and open, 
do you mind me. 

when the player nicks, that is, hazards his money on seven, is singu. 
larly bad luck. 



220 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Miss Hardcastle. I hope, sir, you have ever found 
that I considered your commands as my pride j for 
your kindness is such, that my duty as yet has been 
inclination. [^Exeunt. 



ACT FOURTH. 
Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. 

Hastitigs. You surprise me : Sir Charles Marlow 
expected here this night! Where have you had your 
information ? 

Miss Neville. You may depend u-pon it. I just 
saw his letter to Mr. Hardcastle, in which he tells him 
he intends setting out a few hours after his son. 

Hastings. Then, my Constance, all must be com- 
pleted before he arrives. He knows me ; and should 
he find me here, would discover my name, and, per- 
haps, my designs, to the rest of the family. 

Miss Neville. 'I'he jewels, I hope, are safe? 

Hastings. Yes, yes. I have sent them to Marlow, 
who keeps the keys of our baggage. In the mean time, 
I'll go to prepare matters for our elopement. I have 
had the Squire's promise of a fresh pair of horses j 
and if I should not see him again, will write him 
farther directions. [^Exit. 

Miss Neville. Well, success attend you ! In the 
mean time, I'll go amuse my aunt with the olfl pre- 
tence of a violent passion for my cousin. \_Exit, 

Enter Marlow, followed by a Servant. 

Mai'low. I wonder what Hastings could mean by 
sending me so valuable a thing as a casket to keep 
for him, when he knows the only place I have is the 
seat of a post-coach at an inn-door. Have you de- 
posited the casket with the landlady, as I ordered 
you 1 Have you put it into her own hands l 

Servant. Yes, your honour. 

Marlow. She said she'd keep it safe, did she 1 

Servant, Yes; she said she'd keep it safe enough. 



SHE hT(!(;i\s i\> cuAQ'iiKll. 221 

She asked me how 1 came by it ; and she said she 
had a great mind to make me give an account of 
myself. [Exit Sei-vant. 

Marlow, Ha .' ha ! ha ! They're safe, however. 
What an unaccountable set of beings have we got 
amongst ! This little bar-maid, though, runs in my 
head most strangely, and drives out the absurdities of 
all the rest of the family. She's mine, she must be 
mine, or I'm greatly mistaken. 

Enter Hastings. 

Hastings. Bless me ! I quite forgot io tell her that 
I intended to prepare at the bottom of the garden. 
Marlow here, and in spirits too ! 

Marlow. Give me joy, George ! Crown me, shadow 
me with laurels : Well, George, after all, we modest 
fellows don't want for success among the women. 

Hastings. Some women, you mean. But what 
success has your honour's modesty been crowned with 
now, that It grows so insolent upon us ■? 

Marlow. Didn't you see the tempting, brisk, lovely, 
little thing, that runs about the house with a bunch 
of keys to its girdle ? 

Hastings. Well, and what then 1 

Marlow. She's mine, you rogue you. Such fire, 
such motion, such eyes, such Vvps — but, egad ! she 
would not let me kiss them though. 

Hastings, But are you so sure, so very sure of her? 

Marlow. Why, man, she talked of shewing me her 
work above stairs, and I am to approve the pattern. 

Hastings. But how can you, Charles, go about to 
rob a woman of her honour 1 

Marlow. Pshaw! pshaw! We all know the honour 
of the bar-maid of an inn. I don't intend to rob her, 
take my word for it ; there's nothing in this house I 
shan't honestly pay for. 

Hastings. 1 believe the girl has virtue. 
. Marlow. And if she has, 1 should be the last man 
in the world that would attempt to corrupt it. 



222 SHE STOOPS TO CO.NQLiEU. 

Hastmgs. You have taken care, I hope, of the 
casket I sent you to lock up 1 It's in safety? 

Marlow. Yes, yes ; it's safe enough. 1 have taken 
care of it. But how could you think the seat of a 
post-coach at an inn-door a place of safety V Ah ! 
numskull ! I have taken better precautions for vou 
than you did for yourself — 1 have 

Hasimgs. VVhaf! 

Marlow. I have sent it to the landlady to keep for you. 

Hastings. To the landlady ! 

Marlow. The landlady, 

Hastings, You did 1 

Marlow. I did. She's to be answerable for its 
forthcoraing, you know. 

Hastings. Yes, she'll bring it forth with a witness. 

Marlow. Wasn't I right] I believe you'll allow 
that I acted prudently upon this occasion. 

Hastings. (^Aside.) He must not see my uneasiness. 

Marlow. You seem a little disconcerted though, 
metliinks. Sure nothing has happened t 

Hastings. No, noihing. Never was in better spirits 
in all my life. And so you left it wiih the landlady, 
who, no doubt, very readily undertook the charge. 

Marlow. Rather too readily ; for she not only kept 
the casket, but, through her great precaution, was 
going to keep the messenger too. Ha ! ha ' ha ! 

Hastings. He ! he ! he! They're safe, however. 

Marlow. As a guinea in a miser's purse. 

Hastings. (^Aside.) So now all hopes of fortune are 
at an end, and we must set off without it. (To him) 
Well, Charles, I'll leave you to your meditations on 
the pretty bar-maid, and, he ! he ! he ! may you be 
as successful for yourself as you have been for me ! 

[Exit. 

Marlow. Thank ye, George: I ask nc more. — 
Ha! ha! ha! 

Enter Hardcastle. 

Huvdeastle. I no longer know my own house. It's 
turned all topsy-turvy. His servants have got drunk 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. -J-JS 

already. I'll bear it no loager ; and yet, from my 
respect for his father. 111 be calm. (To him) Mr. 
Marlow, your servant. I'm your very humble ser- 
vant. (^Boiuing low.) 

Marlow. Sir, your humble servant. (Aside) What's 
to be the wonder now 1 

Hardcastle. I believe, sir, you must be sensible, 
sir, that no man alive ought to be more welcome thari 
your father's son, sir. I hope you think so 1 

Marlow. I do from my soul, sir. I don't want 
much entreaty. I generally make my father's son 
welcome wherever he goes. 

Hardcastle, I believe you do, from my soul, sir. 
But though I say nothing to your own conduct, that 
of your servants is insufferable. Their manner of 
drinking is setting a very bad example in this house, I 
assure you. 

Marlow. I protest, my very good sir, that is no 
fault of mine. If they don't drink as they ought, they 
are to blame. I ordered them not to spare the cellar. 
I did, 1 assure you. (To the side-scene) Here, let one 
of my servants come up. (To him) My positive 
directions were, that as I did not drink myself, they 
should make up for my deficiencies below. 

Hardcastle. Then they had your orders for what 
they do 1 I'm satisfied ! 

Marlow. They had, I assure you. You shall hear 
it from one of themselves. 

Enter Servant, drunk. 

Marlow. You, Jeremy ! Come forward, sirrah ! 
What were my orders'! Were you not told to drink 
freely, and call for what you thought fit, for the good 
of the house? 

Hardcastle. (Aside.) I begin to lose my patience. 

Jeremy. Please your honour, liberty and Fleet- 
street for ever ! Though I'm but a servant, I'm as 
good as another man. I'll drink for no man before 



224 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

supper, sir, damme ! God liquor will sit upon a 
good supper, but a good supper will not sit upon— - 
hiccup— upon my conscience, sir. \^Exit, 

Marlow. You see, my old friend, trie fellow is as 
drunk as he can possibly be. I don't know what you'd 
have more, unless you'd have the poor devil soused in 
a beer-barrel. 

Hardcastle. Zounds, he'll drive me distracted, if I 
contain myself any longer I Mr. Marlow : sir, I 
have submitted to your insolence for more than four 
hours, and 1 see no likelihood of its coming to an end. 
I'm now resolved to be master here, sir, and I desire 
that you and your drunken pack may leave my house 
directly. 

Marlow. Leave your house ! — Sure you jest, my 
good friend 1 W hat ! when I'm doing what I can to 
please you. 

Hardcastle. I tell you, sir, you don't please ; so I 
desire you'll leave my house. 

Marlow. Sure you cannot be serious 1 at this time 

o'nightj and such a night'! You only mean to banter 

rije. 

y^" Hardcastle. I tell you, sir, I'm serious ! and now 

;•* that my passi§ns are roused, I say this house is mine, 

and I command you to leave it directly. 

Marlow. Ha ! ha ! ha ! A puddle in a storm. I 
shan't stir a step, I assure you. (I« a serious tone.y 
This your house, fellow ! It's my house. This is 
my house. Mine while I choose to stay. What right 
have you to bid me leave this house, sir 1 I never met 
with such impudence, curse me ; never in my whole 
life before. 

Hardcastle. Nor I, confound me if ever I did ! To 
come to my house, to call for what he likes, to turn me 
out of my own chair, to insult the family, to order his 
servants to get drunk, and then to tell me, ' This 
hoiise is min^ sir!' By all that's impudent, it makes 
me laugh. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Pray, sir, (bantering) as 
you take the house, what think you of taking the rest 
of the furnitfire? There's a pair of .silver candle- 




SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 225 

sticks, and there's a fire-screen, and here's a pair of 
brazen-nosed bellows; perhi.ps you may take a fancy 
to them ■? 

Marlow. Bring me your bill, sir ; bring me your 
bill, and let's make no more words about it. 

Hardcastle. There are a set of prints, too. What 
think you of the Rake's Progress for your own apart- 
ment 1 

Marlow. Bring me your bill, I say, and I'll leave 
you and your infernal house directly. 

Hardcastle. Then there's a mahogany table that 
you may see your face in. 

Marlow. My bill, I say. 

Hardcastle. I had forgot the great chair for your 
own particular slumbers, after a hearty meal. 

Marlow. Zounds ! bring me my bill, L say, and 
let's hear no more on't. 

Hardcastle. Young man, young man, from your 
father's letter to me, I was taught to expect a well-bred, 
modest man as a visitor here, but now I find him no 
better than a coxcomb and a bully ; but he will be 
down here presently, and shall hear more of it. 

[Exit. 

Marlow. How's this I Sure I have not mistaken 
the house. Every thing looks like an inn ; the ser- 
vants cry coming ; the attendance is awkward ; the 
bar-maid, too, to attend us. But she's here, and will 
farther inform me. Whither so fast, child] A word 
with you. 

Enter Miss Hardcastle. 

Miss Hardcastle. Let it be short then. I'm in a 
hurry. (^Aside) I believe he begins to find out his 
mistake. But it's too soon quite to undeceive him. 

Marlow. Pray, child, answer me one question. 
What axe you, and what may your business in this 
house be 1 

Miss Hardcastle. A relation of the family, sir. 

Marlow. What, a poor relation 1 

Miss Hardcastle, Yes, sir, a poor relation, ap- 
L2 



226 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

pointed to keep the keys, and to see that the g'uests 
want nothing in my power to give them. 

Marlow. That is, you act as the bar-maid of this 
inn. 

Miss Hardcastle. Inn ! O la what brought that 

Into your head? One of the best families in the 
county keep an inn ! — Ha I ha 1 ha ! old Mr. Hard* 
castle's house an inn ! 

Marlow. Mr. Hardcastle's house ! Is this Mr. 
Hardcastle's house, child 1 

Miss Hardcastle. Ay, sure. Whose else shou't' 
it be? 

Marlow. So then, all's out, and I have been dam. 
nably imposed upon. Oh, confound my stupid head, 
I shall be laughed at over the whole town ! I shall 
be stuck up in caricatura in all the print-shops. The 
Dullissimo-Maccaroni. To mistake this house of all 
others for an inn, and my father's old friend for an inn- 
keeper ! What a swaggering puppy must he take 
me for ! What a silly puppy do I find myself! There, 
again, may I be hanged, my dear, but I mistook you 
for the bar-maid. 

Miss Hardcastle. Dear me ! dear me ! I'm sure 
there's nothing in my behaviour to put me upon a level 
with one of that stamp. 

Marlow. Nothing, my dear, nothing. But I was in 
for a list of blunders, and could not help making you 
a subscriber. My stupidity saw every thing the wrong 
way. I mistook your assiduity for assurance, and 
your simplicity for allurement. But it's over — this 
house I no more shew my face in. 

Miss Hardcastle. I hope, sir, I have done nothing 
to disoblige you. I'm sure I should be sorry to affront 
any gentleman who has been so polite, and said so 
many civil things to me. I'm sure I should be sorry 
(^p'-etending to cry) if he left the family upon my ac- 
count. I'm sure I should be sorry people said any 
thing amiss, since I have no fortune but my character. 

Marlow. (jlside) By Heaven ! she weeps. This is 
the first mark of tenderness I ever had from a modest 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 227 

woman, and it touches me. (To her) Excuse me, my 
lovely girl ; you are the only part of the family I 
leave with reluctance. But, to be plain with you, the 
difference of our birth, fortune, and education, make 
an honourable connexion impossible ; and I can never 
harbour a thought of seducing simplicity that trusted 
in my honour, of bringing ruin upon one whose only 
fault was being too lovely. 

Miss Hardcastle. (Aside) Generous man ! I now 
begin to admire him. (To him) But I am sure my 
family is as good as Bliss Hardcastle's ; and though 
I'm poor, that's no great misfortune to a contented 
mind ; and, until this moment, I never thought that it 
was bad to want fortune. 

Marlow. And why now, my pretty simplicity ? 
Miss Hardcastle. Because it puts me at a distance 
from one, that if I had a thousand pounds, I would 
give it all to. 

Marlow. (Aside) This simplicity bewitches me so, 
that if I stay, I'm undone. I must make one bold 
effort, and leave her. (To her) Your paitiality in my 
favour, my dear, touches me most sensibly ; and were 
I to live for myself alone, I could easily fix my choice. 
But I owe too much to the opinion of the world, too 
much to the authority of a father ; so that — I can 
scarcely speak it — it affects me — Farewell. \_Exit. 
Miss Hardcastle. I never knew half his merit till 
now. He shall not go if I have power or art to detain 
him. I'll still preserve the character in which I 
stooped to conquer, but will undeceive my papa, who, 
perhaps, may laugh him out of his resolution. [Exit. 

Enter Tony and Miss Neville, 

Tony. Ay, you may steal for yourselves the next 
time. I hare done my duty. She has got the jewels 
again, that's a sure thing ; but she believes it was all a 
mistake of the servants. 

Miss Neville. But, my dear cousin, sure you won't 
forsake us in this distress 1 If she in the least suspects 



228 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUKR. 

that I am going off, I shall certainly be locked up, or 
sent to my aunt Pedigree's, which is ten times worse. 
Tony. To be sure, aunts of all kinds are damned 
bad things. But what can I do 1 I have got you a 
pair of horses that will fly like Whistle Jacket ; and 
I'm sure you can't say but I have courted you nicely 
before her face. Here she comes ; we must court a 
bit or two more, for fear she should suspect us. 

[They retire, and seem to fondle. 

Enter Mrs. Hard castle. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, I was greatly fluttered, to 
be sure, but my son tells me it was all a mistake of 
the servants. I shan't be easy, however, till they are 
fairly married, and then let her keep her own fortune. 
But what do I see 1 fondling together, as I'm alive. 
I never saw Tony so sprightly before. Ah ! have I 
caught you, my pretty doves'! What, billing, ex- 
changing glances and broken murmurs 1 Ah ! 

Tony. As for murmurs, mother, we grumble a little 
now and then, to be sure ; but there's no love lost 
between us. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. A mere sprinkling, Tony, upon 
the flame, only to make it burn brighter. 

Miss Neville. Cousin Tony promises us to give us 
more of his company at home. Indeed, he/shan't 
leave us any more. It won't leave us, cousin Tony, 
will it? 

Tony. Oh, it's a pretty creature. No, I'd sooner 
leave my horse in a pound, than leave you when you 
smile upon one so. Your laugh makes you so be- 
coming. 

Miss Neville. Agreeable cousin 1 Who can help 
admiring that natural humour, that plea^nt, broad, 
Ted, thoughtless, {patting his cheek) — ah ! it's a hold 
face ! 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Pretty innocence ! 

Tony. I'm sure I always loved cousin Con's hazel 
eyes, and her pretty long fingers, that she twisis this 



SHE STOOPS TO CO>fQUER. 229 

way and that over the haspicholls, like a parcel of 
bobbins. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Ah ! he would charm the bird 
from the tree. I was never so happy before. My boy 
takes after his father, poor Mr. Lumpkin, exactly. 
The jewels, my dear Con, shall be yours incontinently! 
You shall have them. Isn't he a sweet boy, my dear ? 
You shall be married to-morrow, and we'll put off the" 
rest of his education, like Dr. Drowsy's sermons, to a 
fitter opportunity. 

Enter Diggovy. 

Biggory. Where's the Scjuire t I have got a letter 
for your worship. 

Tony. Give it to my mamma. She reads all my 
letters first. 

^^ggory. I had orders to deliver it into your own 
hands. 

Tony. Who does it come from 1 
. biggory. Your worship mun ask that o' the letter 
Itself. 

Tony. I could wish to know tliough. (Turning the 
letter, and gazing on it.) 

Miss Neville. (Aside) Undone ! undone ! A letter 
to him from Hastings : I know the hand. If my aunt 
sees It, we are ruined for ever. I'll keep her employed 
a little, if I can. (To Mrs. Hardcastle) But I have 
not told you, madam, of ray cousin's smart answer 
just now to Mr. Marlow. We so laughed— You must 
know, madam— This way a little, for he must not 
hear us. ((They confer.) 

Tony. (Still gazing) A damned cramp piece of 
penmanship, as ever I saw in my life. I can read 
your print-hand very well ; but here there are such 
handles, and shanks, and dashes, that one can scarce 
tell the head from the tail, ' To Anthony Lumpkin, 
Esquire.' It's very odd, I can read the outside of 
my letters, where my own name is, well enouc^h. But 
when I come to open it, it's all buzz.° That's 



230 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

hard — very hard ; for the inside of the letter is always 
the cream of the correspondence. 

-Mrs. Har (least le. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Very well, very 
well. And so my son was too hard for the philosopher ? 

Miss Neville. Yes, madam ; but you must hear the 
rest, madam. A little more this way, or he may hear 
us. You'll hear how he puzzled him again. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. He seems strangely puzzled now 
himself, methinks. 

Tony. (Still gazing) A damned up-and-down hand, 
as if It was disguised in liquor. (Reading') ' Dear 
sis-,' — Ay, that's that. Then there's an M, and a T, 
and an S, but whether the next be an izzard or an R, 
confound me I cannot tell ! 

Mrs. Hardcastle. What's that, my dear ; can I give 
you any assistance 1 

Miss Neville. Pray, aunt, let me read it. Nobody 
reads a cramp hand better than I. (Twitching the 
letter from him) Do you know who it is from ? 

T(my. Can't tell, except from Dick Ginger, the 
feeder. 

Miss Neville. Ay, so it is : (pretending to read) 
Dear Squire, hoping that you're in health, as I am at 
this present. The gentlemen of the Shake Bag Club 
has cut the gentlemen of the Goose Green quite out of 

feather. The odds um odd battle — um — long 

fighting — um — here, here, it's all about cocks and 
fighting ; it's of no consequence — here, put it up, put 
it up. (Thrusting the crumpled letter upon him.) 

Tony. But I tell you, miss, it's of all the conse- 
quence in the world. I would not lose the rest of it 
for a guinea. Here, mother, do you make it out. Of 
no consequence ! [Giving Mrs. Hardcastle the letter. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. How's this! (Reads) 'Dear Squire, 
I'm now waiting for Miss Neville, with a postchaise 
and pair, at the bottom of the garden, but I find my 
horses yet unable to perform the journey. I expect 
you'll assist us with a pair of fresh horses, as you pro- 
mised. Despatch is necessary, as the hag' — ay, the 
hag—' your mother, will otherwise suspect us. Yours, 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 231 

Hastings.' Grant me patience : I shall run distracted ! 
My rage chokes me ! 

Miss Neville. I hope, madam, you'll suspend your 
resentment for a few moments, and not impute to me 
aay impertinence, or sinister design, that belongs to 
another. 

Mrs.Hardcastle. (Curtseying very low) Fine spoken 
madam, you are most miraculoaisly polite and en- 
gaging, and quite the very pink of courtesy and cir- 
cumspection, madam. (Changing her tone) And you, 
you great ill-fashioned oaf, with scarce sense enough 
to keep your mouth shut, — were you, too, joined 
against me 7 But I'll defeat all your plots in a mo- 
ment. As for you, madam, since you have got a pair 
of fresh horses ready, it would be cruel to disappoint 
them. So, if you please, instead of running away 
with your spark, prepare, this very moment, to run off 
with me. Your old aunt Pedigree will keep you 
secure, I'll warrant me. You too, sir, may mount 
your horse, and guard ns upon the way. — Here, 
Thomas, Roger, Diggory ! — I'll shew you, that I wish 
you better than you do yourselves. \^F,xit. 

Miss Neville. So, now I'm completely ruined. 

Tony. Ay, that's a sure thing. 

Miss Nevilie. What better could be expected, from 
being connected with such a stupid fool, and after all 
the nods and signs I made him 1 

Tony. By the laws, miss, it was your own clever- 
ness, and not my stupidity, that did your business ! 
You were so nice and so busy with your Shake Bags 
and Goose Greens, that I thought you could never 
be making believe. 

Enter Hastings. 

Hastings. So, sir, I find by my servant, that you 
have shewn my letter, and betrayed us. Was this 
well done, young gentleman? 

Tony. Here's another. Ask miss, there, who be- 
trayed you. Ecod ! it was her doing, not mine. 



232 SHE STOOPS TO COxMQUER. 

Enter Marlow. 

Mai-low. So, I have been finely used here among 
you. Rendered contemptible, driven into ill man- 
ners, despised, insulted, laughed at. 

Tony. Here's another. We shall have all Bedlam 
broke loose presently. 

Miss Neville. And there, sir, is the gentleman to 
whom we all owe every obligation. 

Marlow. What can I say to him 1 a mere boy, an 
idiot, whose ignorance and age are a protection. 

Haitings. A poor contemptible booby, that would 
but disgrace correction. 

Miss Neville. Yet with cunning and malice enough 
to make himself merry with all our embarrassments. 

Hastings. An insensit)le cub. 

Marlow. Replete with tricks and mischief. 

Tony. Baw ! damme, but I'll fight you both, one 
after the other with baskets. 

Marlow. As for him, he's below resentment. But 
your conduct, Mr. Hastings, requires an explanation. 
You knew of my mistakes, yet would not undeceive 
me. 

Hastings. Tortured as I am with my own disap- 
pointments, is this a time for explanations ? It is not 
friendly, Mr. Marlow. 

Marlow. But, sir 

Miss Neville. Mr. Marlow, we never kept on your 
mistake, till it was too late to undeceive you. Be 
pacified. 

Enter Servant. 

Servant. My mistress desires you'll get ready im- 
mediately, madam. The horses are putting-to. Your 
hat and things are in the next room. We are to go 
thirty miles before morning. [EiJt Servant, 

Miss Neville. Well, well, I'll come presently. 

Marlow. (To Hastings.) Was it well done, sir, to 
assist in rendering me ridiculous 1 — To hang me out 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. i:a3 

for the scorn of all my acquaintance 1 Depend upon 
it, sir, I shall expect an explanation. 

Hastings. Was it well done, sir, if you're upon that 
subject, to deliver what I intrusted to yourself, to the 
care of another, sir 1 

Miss Neville. Mr. Hastings ! Mr. Marlow ! Why 
will you increase my distress by this groundless dis- 
pute 1 I implore — 1 entreat you 

Enter Servant, 

Servant. Your cloak, madam. My mistress is 
impatient. lExit Sei-vant. 

Miss Neville. I come. Pray, be pacified. If 1 
leave yo'u thus, I shall die with apprehension. 

Enter Servant, 

Servant. Your fan, muff, and gloves, madam. The 
horses are waiting. ^Exit Servant. 

Miss Neville. Oh, Mr. Marlow, if you knew what 
a scene of constraint and ill-nature lies before me, I 
am sure it would convert your resentment into pity ! 

Marlnw. I'm so distracted with a variety of pas- 
sions, that I don't know what I do. Forgive me, 
madam. George, forgive me. You know my hasty 
temper, and should not exasperate it. 

Hastings. The torture of my situation is my only 
excuse. 

Miss Neville. Well, my dear Hastings, if you have 
that esteem for me that I think — that I am sure you 
have, your constancy for three years will but increase 
the happiness of our future connexion. If 

Mrs. Hardcasile. (^WUhln.) Miss Neville ! Con- 
stance, why, Constance, 1 say ! 

Miss Neville. I'm coming 1 Well, constancy ; re- 
member, constancy is the word. [^Esit. 

Hastings. My heart ! how can I support this 1 To 
be so near happiness, and such happiness ! 

Marlow. (To Tony.^ You sec now, young gentle- 



# 



234 SHE SI'OOPS TO CONQUER, 

man, the effects of your folly. What might be arouse- 
ment to you, is here disappointment, and even distress. 
Tony. {From a reverie.) Ecod, I have hit it: it's 
here ! Your hands. Yours, and yours, my poor Sulky. 
My boots there, ho ! — Meet me, two hours hence, at 
the bottom of the garden ; and if you don't find Tony 
Lumpkin a more good-natured fellow than you thought 
for, I'll give you leave to take my best horse, and Bet 
Bouncer into the bargain. Come along. My boots, 
ho ! lExeunt. 



ACT FIFTH. 

Enter Hastings and Servant. 

Hastings. You saw the old lady and Miss Neville 
drive off, you say t 

Servant. Yes, your honour. They went off in a 
post-coach, and the young squire went on horseback. 
They're thirty miles off by this time. 

Hastings. Then all my hopes are over ! 

Serva7it. Yes, sir. Old Sir Charles is arrived. He 
and the old gentleman of the house have been laugh- 
ing at Mr. Marlow's mistake this half hour. They 
are coming this way. [Eii't. 

Hastings. Then I must not be seen. So -now to 
my fruitless appointment at the bottom of the garden. 
This is about the time. [^Exit. 

Enter Sir Charles Marlotv and Hardcastle, 

Hardcastle. Ha! ha! ha! The peremptory tone in 
which he sent forth his sublime commands ! 

Sir Charles. And the reserve with which I suppose 
he treated all your advances. 

Hardcoitlz. And yet he might have seen something 
m me above a common innkeeper, too. 

Sir Charles. Yes, Dick, but he mistook you for an 
uncommon innkeeper ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 235 

Ilardcaitle. Well, I'm in too good spirits to think 
of any thing but joy. Yes, my dear friend, this 
union of our families will make our personal friend- 
ships hereditary, and though my daughter's fortune is 
but small 

Sir Charles. Why, Dick, will you talk of fortune 
to mel My son is possessed of more than a compe- 
tence already, and can want nothing but a good and 
virtuous girl to share his happiness and increase it. 
If they like each other, as you say they do 

HardcastLe. If, man ! I tell you they do like each 
other. My daughter as good as told me so. 

Sir Charles. But girls are apt to flatter themselves, 
you know. 

Hardcastle. I saw him grasp her hand in the warmest 
manner myself ; and here he comes to put you out of 
your ifs, 1 warrant him. 

Enter Marlow. 

Marlow. I come, sir, once more, to ask pardon for 
my strange conduct. I can scarce reflect on my in- 
solence without confusion. 

Hardcastle. Tut, boy, a trifle. You take it too 
gravely. An hour or two's laughing with my daugh- 
ter, will set all to rights again. She'll never like 
you the worse for it. 

Marlow. Sir, I shall be always proud of her ap- 
probation. 

Hardcastle. Approbation is but a cold word, Mr. 
Marlow ; if I am not deceived, you have something 
more than approbation thereabouts. You take me ! 

Marlow, Really, sir, I've not that happiness. 

Hardcasile. Come, boy, I'm an old fellow, and 
know what's what as well as you that are younger. 
I know what has past between you ; but mum. 

MarlouK Sure, sir, nothing has past between us but 
the most profound respect on my side, and the most 
distant reserve on hers. You don't think, sir, that 
my impudence has been past upon all the rest of the 
family ! 



23G SUE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Hardcastle. Impudence ! No, I don't say that — 
not quite impudence — though girls like to be played 
with, and rumpled a little too, sometimes. But she 
has told no tales, I assure you. 

Marbw. 1 never gave her the slightest cause. 

Hardcastle. Well, well, I Jike modesty in its place 
well enough ; but this is over-acting, young gentle- 
man. You may be open. Your father and I will 
like you the better for it. 

Marlow, May I die, sir, if I ever ■ 

Hardcastle. I tell you, she don't dislike you ; and 
as I'm sure you like her 

Marlow. Dear sir, I protest, sir 

Hardcastle. I see no reason why you should not be 
joined as fast as the parson can tie you. 

Marlow. But hear me, sir 

Hardcastle. Your father approves the match, I ad- 
mire it ; every moment's delay will be doing mischief, 
so 

Marlow. Bui why don't you hear me ? By all that's 
just and true, I never gave Miss Hardcastle the 
slightest mark of my attachment, oT even the most 
distant hint to suspect me of affection. We had but 
one interview, and that was formal, modest, and 
uninteresting. 

Hardcastle. (Aside.) This fellow's formal, modest 
impudence is beyond bearing. 

Sir Charles. And you never grasped her hand, or 
made any protestations 1 

Marlow. As Heaven is my witness, I came down 
in obedience to your commands ; I saw the lady with- 
out emotion, and parted without reluctance. I hope 
you'll exact no farther proofs of my duty, nor prevent 
me from leaving a house in which I suffer so many 
mortifications. « [Exit, 

Sir Charles. I'm astonished at the air of sincerity 
with which he parted. 

Hardcastle. And I'm astonished at the deliberate 
intrepidity of his assurance. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 237 

_ Sir Charles. I dare pledge my life and honour upon 
his truth. 

Hardcastle. Here comes my daughter, and I would 
stake my happiness upon her veracity. 

Enter Miss Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle. Kate, come hither, child. Answer us 
sincerely, and without reserve : has Mr. Marlow made 
you any professions of love and affection 1 

Mess Hardcastle. The question is very abrupt, sir ! 
But since you require unreserved sincerity — I think 
he has, 

Hardcastle. (To Sir Charles) You see. 
Sir Charles. And pray, madam, have you and my 
son had more than one interview ? 
Miss Hardcastle. Yes, sir, several. 
Hardcastle. (To Sir Charles) You see. 
^ SirCharles. But did he profess any attachment ? 
Miss Hardcastle. A lastino- one. 
Sir Charles. Did he talk of love 1 
Miss Hardcastle. Much, sir. 
Sir Charles. Amazing ! And all this formally ■? 
Miss Hardcastle. Formally. 
_ Hardcastle. Now, my friend, I hope you are sa- 
tisfied. 

Sir Charles. And how did he behave, madam ? 
Miss Hardcastle. As most professed admirers do , 
said some civil things of my face ; talked much of his 
vvant of merit, and the greatness of mine ; mentioned 
his heart, gave a short tragedy speech, and ended with 
pretended rapture. 

Sir Charles. Now I'm perfectly convinced, indeed, 
I know his conversation among women to be modest 
and submissive. This forward, canting, ranting man- 
ner by no means describes him, and, I am confident, 
he never sat for the picture. 

Miss Hardcastle. Then what, sir, if I should con- 
vmce you to your face of my sincerity ? If you and 
my papa, in about half an hour, will place yourselves 



238 SHE STOOPS TO CONQU£R. 

behind that screen, you shall hear him declare his 
passion to me in person. 

Sir Charles. Agreed. And if I find him what you 
describe, all my happiness in him must have an end. 

[Exit, 

Miss Hardcastle. And if you don't find him what I 
describe, I fear my happiness mwst never have a 
beginning. 

SCENE CHANGES TO THE BACK OF THE GARDEN. 

Enter Hastings. 

Hastings. What an idiot am I to wait here for a 
fellow who probably takes a delight in mortifying me. 
He never intended to be punctual, and I'll wait no 
longer. What do I see ^ It is he ! and perhaps 
with news of my Constance. 

Enter Tony, booted and spattered. 

Hastings. My honest Squire ! I now find you a man 
of your word. This looks like friendship. 

Tony. Ay, I'm your friend, and the best friend you 
have in the world, if you knew but all. This riding 
by night, by the by, is cursedly tiresome. It has shook 
me worse than the basket of a stage-coach. 

Hasting'!. But how 7 where did you leave your 
fellow-travellers ? Are they in safety 1 Are they 
housed 1 

Tony, Five-and-twenty miles in two hours and a 
half, is no such bad driving. The poor beasts have 
smoked for it : rabbit me ! but I'd rather ride forty 
miles after a fox, than ten with such varmint. 

Hastings. Well, but where have you left the ladies? 
I die with impatience. 

Tony. Left them ! Why, where should I leave 
them but where I found them 1 

Hastings. This is a riddle. 

Tony. Kiddle me this, then. What's that goes 



Z*"^ 



SHE STUOj'a i;; Cv>\.il K,:i. 239 

round the house, and round the house, and never 
touches the house 1 

Hastings. I'm still astray. 

Tony. Why, that's it, mun. I have led them astray 
By jingo, there's not a pond or a slough within hvo 
miles of the place but they can tell the taste of. 

Hastings. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I understand : you took 
them in a round, while they supposed themselves 
going forward, and so you have at last brought them 
home again. 

Tony. You shall hear. I first took them down 
Feather-bed Lane, where we stuck fast in the mud. 
I then rattled them crack over the stones of Up-and- 
down Hill. I then introduced them to the gibbet on 
Heavy-tree Heath ; and from that, with a circum- 
bendibus, I fairly lodged them in the horse-pond at 
the bottom of the garden. 

Hastings. But no accident, I 'nope 1 

Tony. No, no ; only mother is confoundedly 
frightened. She thinks herself forty miles off. She's 
sick of the journey ; and the cattle can scarce crawl. 
So, if your own horses be ready, you may whip off 
with cousin, and I'll be bound that no soul here can 
budge a foot to follow you. 

Hastings. IMy dear friend, how can I be grateful ? 

Tony. Ay, now it's dear friend ; noble Squire ! 
Just now, it was all idiot, cub, and run me through 
the guts. Damn your way of fighting, I say. After 
we take a knock in this part of the country, we kiss 
and be friends. But if you had run me through the 
guts, then I should be dead, and you might go kiss 
the hangman. 

Hastings. The rebuke is just. But I must hasten 
to relieve Miss Neville : if you keep the old lady em- 
ployed, I promise to take care of the young one. 

[Exit Hastings, 

Tony. Never fear me. Here she comes ; vanish ! 
She's got from the pond, and draggled up to the waist 
like a mermaid. 



240 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Enter Mrs. Hardcastle. 

■ Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, Tony, I'm killed Shook . 
Battered to death ! I shall never survive it. That 
last jolt, that laid us against the quickset-hedge, his 
done my business. 

Tony. Alack, mamma ! it was all your own fault. 
You would be for running away by night, without 
knowing one inch of the way. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. I wish we were at home again. 
1 never met so many accidents in so short a journey. 
Drenched in the mud, overturned in a ditch, stuck 
fast in a slou-gh, jolted to a jelly, and at last to lose 
our way ! Whereabouts do you think we are, Tony 1 

Tony. By my guess, we should be upon Crack- 
skull Common, about forty miles from home. 

Mrs. Hardcast-le. O lud ! O lud ! The most no- 
torious spot in all the country. We only want a 
robbery to make a complete night on't. 

Tony. Don't be afraid, mamma ; don't be afraid. 
Two of the five that kept here are hanged, and the 
other three may not find us. Don't be afraid. — Is 
that a man that's galloping behind us No, it's only 
a tree.^Don't be afraid. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. The fright will certainly kill me. 

Tony. Do you see any thing like a black hat 
moving behind the thicket ? 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, death ! 

Tony. No : it's only a cow. Don't be afraid, 
mamma ; don't be afraid. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. As I'm alive, Tony, I see a man 
coming towards us. Ah ! I am sure on't. If he per- 
ceives us, we are undone. 

Tony. (Aiide) Father-in-law, by all that's un- 
lucky, come to take one of his night walks. (To her) 
Ah ! it's a highwayman, with pistols as long as my 
arm. A damn'd ill-looking fellow ! 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Good Heaven defend us ! He 
approaches. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, 241 

Tony. Do you hide yourself in that thicket, and 

leave me to manage him. If there be any danger, 

I'll cough and cry hem. When I cough, be sure to 

keep close. \_Mrs. Hardcastle hides behind a 

tree in the back scene. 

Enter Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle. I'm mistaken, or I heard voices of 
people in want of help. Oh, Tony, is that you 1 I 
did not expect you so soon back. Are your mother 
and her charge in safety? 

Tony. Very safe, sir, at my aunt Pedigree's, Hem. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. (^From behind) All, death ! I find 
there's danger. 

Hardcastle. Forty miles in three hours ; sure that's 
too much, my youngster, 

Tony. Stout horses and willing minds make short 
journeys, as they say. Hem, 

MJ-s. Hardcastle. (From behind) Sure, he'll do the 
dear bov no harm I 

Hardcastle. But I heard a voice here ; I should be 
glad to know from whence it came. 

Tony. It was I, sir, talking to myself, sir. I was 
saying that forty miles in four hours was very good 
going. Hera. As to be sure it was. Hem. I have 
got a sort of cold by being out in the air. We'll go 
in, if you please. Hem. 

Hardcastle. But if you talked to yourself, you did 
not answer yourself. I'm certain I heard two voices, 
and am resolved (raising his voice) to find the other 
out, 

Mrs. Hardcastle. ( From behind) Oh! he's coming 
to find me out. Oh ! 

Tony. What need you go, sir, if I tell you ? Hem. 
I'll lay down my life for the truth — hem — I'll tell 
you all, sir. [Detaining him. 

Hardcastle. I tell you I will not be detained. I 
insist on seeing. It's in vain to expect I'll believe 
you. 

M 



242 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. (Runnincr forward from behindy 

lud! he'll rnurder my poor boy, my darling ! Here, 
good gentleman, whet your rage upon me. Take my 
money, my life, but spare that young gentleman ; 
spare my child, if you have any mercy. 

Hardcastle. My wife, as I'm a Christian. From 
whence can she have come ? or what does she mean 1 

Mrs. Hardcastle. (^Kneeling) Take compassion on 
us, good Mr. Highvvayman. Take our money, our 
watches, all we have, but spare our lives. We will 
never bring you to justice ; indeed we won't, good 
Mr. Highwayman. 

Hardcastle. I believe the woman's out of her senses. 
What, Dorothy, don't you know me 1 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Mr. Hardcastle, as I'm alive J 
My fears blinded me. But who, my dear, could 
have expected to meet you here, in this frightful 
place, so far from home ? What has brought you to 
follow usi 

Hardcastle. Sure', Dorothy, you have not lost your 
wits 1 So far from home, when you are within forty 
yards of your own door ! (To hirn) This is one of 
your old tricks, you graceless rogue, you. (To her) 
Don't you know the gate and the mulberry-tree 1 and 
don't you remember the horse-pond, my dear 1 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Yes, I shall remember the horse- 
pond as long as I live ; I have caught my death in it. 
(To Tony) And is it to you, you graceless varlet, 
I owe all this l I'll teach you to abuse your mother— 

1 will. 

Tony. Ecod, mother, all the parish says you have 
spoiled me, and so you may take the fruits on't. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. I'll spoil you, I will. 

[^Follows him off the stage. 

Hardcastle. There's morality, however, in his re- 
ply. [Etti. 

Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. 
Hastings, My dear Constance, why will you de- 
liberate thus 1 If we delay a moment, all is lost for 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 243 

ever. Pluck up a little resolution, and we shall soon 
be out of the reach of her malignity. 

Miss Neville. I find it impossible. My spirits are 
so sunk with the agitations I have suffered, that I am 
unable to face any new danger. Two or three years' 
patience will at last crown us with happiness. 

Hastings. Such a tedious delay is worse than in- 
constancy. Let us fly, my charmer ! Let us date 
our happiness from this very moment. Perish for- 
tune ! Love and content will increase what we pos- 
sess beyond a monarch's revenue. Let me prevail ! 

Miss Neville. No, Mr. Hastings, no. Prudence 
once more comes to my relief, and I will obey its dic- 
tates. In the moment of passion, fortune may be 
despised, but it ever produces a lasting repentance. I'm 
resolved to apply to Mr. Hardcastle's compassion and 
justice for redress. 

Hastings. But though he had the will, he has not 
the power, to relieve you. 

Miss Neville. But he has influence, and upon that 
I am resolved to rely. 

Hastings. 1 have no hopes. But, since you per- 
sist, I must reluctantly obey you. [^Exeunt. 

^-^ SCENE CHANGES. 

Enter Sir Charles Marlotv and Miss Hardcastle. 

Sir Charles. What a situation am I in ! If what 
you say appears, I shall then find a guilty son. If 
what he says be true, I shall then lose one that, of all 
others, I most wis'hed for a daughter. 

Miss Hardcastle. I am proud of your approbation ; 
and to shew I merit it, if you place yourselves as I 
directed, you shall hear his explicit declaration. But 
he comes. 

Sir Charles. I'll to your father, and keep him to 
the appointment. [Exit Sir Charles. 

Enter Marlow. 
Marlow. Though prepared for setting out, I come 



244 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

once more to talce leave ; nor did 1, till this moment, 

know the pain I feel in the separation- 

Miss Hardcastle. {In her own natural manner.) I 
believe these sufferings cannot be very great, sir, 
which you can so easily remove. A day or two 
longer, perhaps, might lessen your uneasiness, by 
shewing the little value of what you now think pro- 
per to regret. 

Marlmo. (Aside.) This girl every moment im- 
proves upon me. [To her) It must not be, madam ; 
I have already trifled too long with my heart. My 
very pride begins to submit to my passion. The dis- 
parity of education and fortune, the anger of a pa- 
rent, and the contempt of my equals, begin to lose 
their weight ; and nothing can restore me to myself 
but this pai-nful effort of resolution. 

Miss Hardcastle. Then go, sir ; I'll urge nothing 
more to detain you. Though my family be as good 
as hers you came down to visit, and my education, I 
hope, not inferior, what are these advantages without 
equal affluence? I must remain contented with the 
slight approbation of imputed merit ; I must have 
only the mockery of your addresses, while all your 
serious aims are fixed on fortune. 

Enter Hardcastle and Sir Charles Marlow,from hehind. 

Sir Charles. Here, behind this screen. 

Hardcastle. Ay, ay; make no noise. I'll' engage 
my Kate covers him with confusion at last. 

Marlow. By Heavens ! madam, fortune was ever 
my smallest consideration. Your beauty at first 
caught my eye ; for who could see that without emo- 
tion? But every moment that I converse with you, 
steals in some new grace, heightens the picture, and 
gives it stronger expression. What at first seemerf 
rustic plainness, nov/ appears refined simplicity. What 
seemed forward assurance, now strikes me as the re- 
sult of courageous innocence and conscious virtue. 

Sir Charles. What can it mean 1 He amazes me ! 

Hardcastle. I told you how it would be. Hush ! 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 245 

Murlow. I am now determined to stay, madam, 
and I have too good an opinion of my father's dis- 
cernment, when he sees you, to doubt his approbation. 
Miss HardcaMe. No, Mr. Marlow, 1 will not, 
cannot detain you. Do you think I could suffer a 
connexion in which there is tlie smallest room for 
repentance? Do you think I would take the mean 
advantage of a transient passion to load you with con- 
fusion 1 Do you think I could ever relish that hap- 
piness which was acquired by lessening yours 1 

Marlow. By all that's good, I can have no happi- 
ness but what's in your power to grant me ! Nor 
shall I ever feel repentance but in not having seen 
your merits before. I will stay even contrary to your 
wishes ; and though you should persist to shun me, I 
will make my respectful assiduities alone for the levity 
of my past conduct. 

Miss Hardcastle. Sir, I must entreat you'll desist. 
As our acquaintance began, so let it end, in indiffer- 
ence. I might have given an hour or two to levity ; 
but seriously, Mr. Marlow, do you think I could ever 
submit to a connexion where I must appear merce- 
nary, and you imprudent'! Do you think I could ever 
catch at the confident addresses of a secure admirerf 

Marlow. (Kneeling.) Does this look like security] 
Does this look like confidence 1 No, madam, every 
moment that shews me your merit, only serves to in- 
crease my diffidence and confusion. Here let me 
continue 

iSiV Charles. I can hold it no longer. Charles, 
Charles, how hast thou deceived me ! Is this your 
indifference, your uninteresting conversation? 

Hardcastle. Your cold contempt ; your formal in» 
terview ! What have you to say now ? 

Marlaw. That I'm all amazement ! What can it 
mean? 

Hardcastle. It means that you can say and unsay 
things at pleasure : that you can address a lady in 
private, and deny it in public : that you have one 
story for us, and another for my daughter. 



24G SHi'^ SH)()!-S 10 C()>QUEJl. 

Martow. Daughter ! — This lady your daughter'? 

Hardcastle. Yes, sir, my only daughter — my Kate ; 
whose else should she be 1 

Marlow. Oh, the devil ! 

Miss Hardcastle. Yes, sir, that very identical tall 
squinting lady you were pleased to take me for 
{curtseying ;) she that you addressed as the mild, mo- 
dest, sentimental man of gravity, and the bold, for- 
vifard, agreeable Rattle of the ladies' club. Ha ! ha I 
ha! 

Marlow. Zounds, there's no bearing this ; it's worse 
than death ! 

Miss Hardcastle, In which of your characters, sir, 
will you give us leave to address you ] As the falter- 
ing gentleman, with looks on the ground, that speaks 
just to be heard, and hates hypocrisy ; or the loud 
confident creature, that keeps it up with Mrs. Man- 
trap, and old Miss Biddy Buckskin, till three in the 
morning! — Ha! ha! ha! 

Marlow. Oh, curse on my noisy head! I never at- 
tempted to be impudent yet that I was not taken 
down ! I must be gone. 

Hardcastle. By the hand of my body, but you_shall 
not. I see it was all a mistake, and I am rejoiced 
to find it. You shall not stir, I tell you. I know 
she'll forgive you. Won't you forgive him, Kate ? 
We'll all forgive you. Take courage, man. 

[They retire, she tormenting him, to the baclc scene. 

Enter Mrs. Hardcastle and Tony. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. So, so, they're gone off. Let them 
go, I care not. 

Hardcastle. Who gone 1 

Mrs. Hardcastle. My dutiful niece and her gen- 
tleman, Mr. Hastings, from town. He who came 
down with our modest visitor here. 

Sir Charles. Who, my honest George Hastings'! 
As worthy a fellow as lives, and the girl could not 
have made a more prudent choice. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEll. 247 

Hardcastle. Then, by the hand of my body, I'm 
proud of the connexion. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, if he has taken away the 
lady, he has not taken her fortune : that remains in 
this family to console us for her loss. 

Hardcastle. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so 
mercenary ] 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Ay, that's my affair, not yours. 

Hardcastle. But you know if your son, when of 
age, refuses to marry his cousin, her whole fortune is 
then at her own disposal. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Ay, but he's not of age, and she 
has not thought proper to wait for his refusal. 

Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. (^Aside.) What, returned so soon! 
I begin not to like it. 

Hastings. (To Hardcastle.} For my late attempt to 
fly off with your niece, let my present confusion be 
my punishment. We are now come back, to appeal 
from your justice to your humanity. By her father's 
consent I first paid her my addresses, and our pas- 
sions were first founded in duty. 

Miss Neville. Since his death, 'I have been obliged 
to stoop to dissimulation to avoid oppression. In an 
hour of levity, I was ready even to give up my for- 
tune to secure my choice : But I am now recovered 
from the delusion, and hope, from your tenderness, 
what is denied me from a nearer connexion. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Pshaw, pshaw ; this is all but the 
whining end of a modern novel. 

Hardcastle. Be it what it will, I'm glad they're 
come back to reclaim their due. Come hither, Tony, 
boy. Do you refuse this lady's hand, whom I now 
offer you 1 

Tony. What signifies my refusing 1 You know I 
can't refuse her till I'm of age, father. 

Hardcastle. While I thought concealing your age, 
boy, was likely to conduce to your improvement, I 



2-18 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEK. 

concurred with your mother's desire to keep it secret. 
But since I find she turns it to a wrong use, 1 must 
now declare you have been of age these three months. 

Tony. jOf age ! Am I of age, father 1 

Hardcastte. Above three months. 

Tony. Then you'll see the first use I'll make of my 
liberty. (Taking Miss Neviiles hand) Witness all 
men by these presents, that I, Anthony Lumpkin, 
esquire, of blank place, refuse you, Constantia Ne- 
ville, spinster, of no place at all, for my true and law- 
ful wife. So Constance Neville may marry whom 
she pleases, and Tony Lumpkin is his own man again. 

Sir Charles. O brave Squire ! 

Hastings. My worthy friend ! 

Mrs. Hardcastte. My undutiful offspring ! 

Marlmo. Joy, my dear George, I give you joy sin- 
cerely ! And, could 1 prevail upon my little tyrant 
here to be less arbitrary, I should be the happiest man 
alive, if you would return me the favour. 

Hastings. {To Miss Haidcastle.) Come, madam, 
you are now driven to the very last scene of all your 
contrivances. I know you like him, I'm sure he loves 
you, and you must and shall have him. 

Hardcastle. (Joining their hands) And I say so 
too. And, Mr. Marlow, if she makes as good a wife 
as she has a daughter, I don't believe you'll ever re- 
pent your bargain. So now to supper. To-morrow 
we shall gather all the poor of the parish about us, 
and the mistakes of the night shall be crowned with 
a merry morning. So, boy, take her; and, as you 
. have been mistaken in the mistress, my wish is, that 
\you may never be mistaken in the wife. 

"'^, [Eaeunt omnes. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUKll. 249 

EPILOGUE, 
BY DR. GOLDSMITH. 

SPOKEN BY URS. BULKLET, IN TBE CUARACTEB OF 

MISS HARDCASTL£. 

Well, having stoop'd to conquer with success. 
And gain'd a husband without aid from dress. 
Still, as a bar-maid, I could wish it too. 
As I have conquer'dhim to conquer you : 
And let me say, for all your resolution. 
That pretty bar-maids have done execution. 
Our life is all a play, composed to please ; 
* We have our exits and our entrances.' 
The first act shews the simple country maid, 
Harmless and young, of every thing afraid ; 
Blushes when hired, and, with unmeaning action, 
' I hopes as how to give you satisfaction.' 
Her second act displays a livelier scene, — 
Th' unblushing bar-maid of a country inn. 
Who whisks about the house, at market caters, 
Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the waiters. 
Next the scene shifts to town, and there she soars, 
The chop-house toast of ogling connoisseurs : 
On squires and cits she there displays her arts, 
And on the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts ; 
And, as she smiles, her triumphs to complete. 
E'en common-eouncilmen forget to eat. 
The fourth act shews her wedded to the squire, 
And madam now begins to hold it higher ; 
Pretends to taste, at operas cries caro. 
And quits her Nancy Dawson for Che Faro : 
Doats upon dancing, and, in all her pride, 
Swims round the room, the Heinel of Cheapside ; 
Ogles and leers, with artificial skill, 
Till, having lost in age the pow£r to kill. 
She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille. 
Sucli, through our lives, th' eventful history! 
The fifth and last act still remains for me : 
The bar-maid now for your protection prays, 
Turns female Barrister, and pleads for Bays. 
M2 ^ 



250 Slii; .Sl'wv;i .. io ^:.;s;^LKH. 

EPILOGUE, * 

TO BE SPOKEN IN THE CHARACTER OF TONY LUMF&IN, 

By J. CRADOCK, Esq. 

Well, now all's ended, and my comrades gone. 
Pray what becomes of mother's nonly son' 
A hopeful blade ! — in town I'll fix my station. 
And try to make a bluster in the nation : 
As for my cousin Neville, I renounce her — 
Off, in a crack, I'll carry big Bet Bouncer ! 

Why should not I in the great world appear? 
I soon shall have a thousand pounds a-year ! 
No matter what a man may here inherit. 
In London — gad, they've some regard to spirit : 
I see the -horses prancing up the streets. 
And big Bet Bouncer bobs to all she meets ; 
Then hoiks to jigs and pastimes every night — 
Not to the plays — they say it an't polite : 
To Sadler's Wells, perhaps, or operas go, 
And once, by chance, to the roratorio. 
Thus, here and there, for ever up and down ; 
We'll set the fashions, too, to half the town ; 
And then at auctions — money ne'er regard — 
Buy pictures, like the great, ten pounds a-yard : 
Zounds ! we shall inake these London gentry say. 
We know what's damn'd genteel as well as they • 

* This came too late to be spoken. 



i5l 



ESSAYS, 



INTRODUCTION. 



There is not, perhaps, a more whimsical figure iH 
nature, than a man of real modesty who assumes an 
air of impudence ; who, while his heart beats with 
anxiety, studies ease and affects good-humour. In 
this situation, however, every unexperienced wfiter, as 
I am, finds himself. Impressed with terrors of the 
tribunal before which he is going to appear, his natu- 
ral humour turns to pertness, and for real wit he is 
obliged to substitute vivacity. 

For mv part, as I was never distinguished for ad- 
dress, and have often even blundered in making my 
bow, I am at a loss whether to be merry or sad on this 
solemn occasion. Should I modestly decline all merit, 
it is too probable the hasty reader may take me at my ■ 
word, if, on the other hand, like labourers in the 
magazine trade, I humbly presume to promise an epi- 
tome of all the good things that were ever said or 
written, those readers I most desire to please may for- 

My bookseller, in this dilemma, perceiving my 
embarrassment, instantly offered his assistance and 
advice. ' You must know, sir,' says he, ' that the 
republic of letters is at present divided into several 
classes. One writer excels at a plan or a title-page ; 
another works away at the body of the book ; and i 
third is a dab at an index. Thus a magazine is not 
the result of any single man's industry, but goes 
through as many hands as a new pin, before it is fit 
for the public. I fancy, sir,' continues he ' I can 



252 ESSAVS. 

provide an eminent hand, and upon moderate terms 
to draw up a promising plan to smooth up our readers 
a little ; and pay them, as Colonel Chartres paid hig 
seraglio, at the rate of three-halfpence in hand, and 
three shillings more in promises.' 

He was proceeding in his advice, vifhich, however, I 
thought proper to decline, by assuring him, that as I 
intended to pursue no fixed method, so it was impos- 
sible to form any regular plan ; determined never to 
be tedious in order to be logical ; wherever pleasure 
presented I was resolved to follow. 

It will be improper, therefore, to pall the reader's 
curiosity by lessening his surprise, or anticipate any 
pleasure I am to procure him, by saying what shall 
come next. Happy, could any effort of mine but re- 
press one criminal pleasure, or but for a moment fill 
up an interval of anxiety 1 How gladly would I lead 
mankind from the vain prospects of life, to prospects 
of innocence and ease, where every breeze breathes 
health, and every sound is but the echo of tranquillity ! 
But whatever may be the merit of his intentions, 
every writer is now convinced that he must be chiefly 
indebted to good fortune for finding readers willing to 
allow him any degree of reputation. It has been re- 
marked, that almost every character which has excited 
either attention or pity, has owed part of its success to 
merit, and part to a happy concurrence of circum- 
stances in its favour. Had Caesar or Cromwell ex- 
changed countries, the one might have been a Serjeant, 
and the other an exciseman. So it is with wit, which 
generally succeeds more from being happily addressed, 
than from its native poignancy. A jest calculated to 
spread at a gaming-table, may be received with per- 
fect indiflTerence should it happen to drop in a macke- 
rel-boat. We have all seen dunces triumph in some 
companies, where men of real humour were disre- 
garded, by a general combination in favour of stupidity. 
To drive the observation as far as it will go, should 
the labours of a writer, who designs his performances 
for readers of a more refined appetite, fall into the 



ESSAYS. 253 

hands of a devourer of compilations, what can he ex- 
pect but contempt and confusion 1 If his merits are 
to be determined by judges who estimate the value of 
a book from its bulk, or its frontispiece, every rival 
must acquire an easy superiority, who with persuasive 
eloquence promises four extraordinary pages of letter- 
press, or three beautiful prints, curiously coloured 
from Nature. 

Thus, then, though I cannot promise as much 
eatertainment, or as much elegance, as others have 
done, yet the reader may be assured he shall have as 
much of both as I can. He shall, at least, find me 
alive while I study his entertainnent ; for I solemnly 
assure him, I was never yet possessed of the secret of 
writing and sleeping. 

During the course of this paper, therefore, all the 
wit and learning I have, are heartily at his service ; 
which if, after so candid a confession, he should, not- 
withstanding, still find intolerably dull, or low, or sad 
stuff, this I protest is more than I know ; 1 have a 
clear conscience, and am entirely out of the secret. 

Yet I would not have hirn, upon the perusal of a 
single paper, pronounce me incorrigible ; he may try 
a second, which, as there is a studied difference in 
subject and style, may be more suited to his taste ; if 
this also fails, I must refer him to a third, or even a 
fourth, in case oi extremity ; if he should still continue 
refractory, and find me dull to the last, I must inform 
him, with Bayes in the Rehearsal, that 1 think hirn 
a very odd kind of fellow, and desire no more of his 
acquaintance ; but still, if my readers impute the ge- 
neral tenor of my subject to me as a fault, I must beg 
leave to tell them a story. 

A traveller, in his way to Italy, found himself in a 
country where the inhabitants had each a large ex- 
crescence depending from the chin ; a deformity 
which, as it was endemic, and the people little used 
to strangers, it had been the custom, time iri^memo- 
rial, to look upon as the greatest beaaty. Ladies grew 
toasts from the size of their chins, and no men were 



254 ESSAYS, 

beaux whose faces were not broadest at the bot- 
tom. It was Sunday ; a country-church was at hand, 
and our traveller was willing to perform the duties 
of the day. Upon his first appearance at the church- 
door, the eyes of all were fixed on the stranger ; but 
what was their amazement, when they found that he 
actually wanted that emblem of beauty, a pursed 
chin ! Stifled bursts of laughter, winks, and whispers, 
circulated from visage to visage ; the prismatic figure 
of the stranger's face, was a fund of infinite gaiety. 
Our traveller could no longer patiently continue an 
object of deformity to point at. ' Good folks,' said 
he, ' I perceive that I am a very ridiculous figure 
here, but I assure you I am reckoned no way de- 
formed at home.' 



LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP; OR, THE STORY 
OF ALCANDER AND SEPTIMUS. 

(Taken from a ByzaHtine Historian.) 

Athens, even long after the decline of the Roman 
empire, still continued the seat of learning, politeness, 
and wisdom. Theodoric, the Ostrogoth, repaired the 
schools which barbarity was suffering to fall into decay, 
and continued those pensions to men of learning, 
which avaricious governors had monopolized. 

In this city, and about this period, Alcander and 
Septimius were fellow-students together ; the one, 
the most subtle reasoner of all the Lyceum ; the other, 
the most eloquent speaker in the academic grove. 
Mutual admiration soon begot a friendship. Their 
fortunes were nearly equal, and they were natives of 
the two most celebrated cities in the world ; for 
Alcander was of Athens, Septimius came from Rome. 

In this state of harmony they lived for some time 
together, when Alcander, after passing the first part 
of his youth in the indolence of philosophy, thought 
at length of entering into the busy world ; and as a 
Btep previous to this, placed his affections on iivpcuia. 



KSSAY3. 255 

a lady o^ exquisite beauty. 'I'lie day of their intended 
nuptials was fixed ; the previous ceremonies were per- 
formed ; and nothing now remained but her being 
conducted in triumph to the apartment of the intended 
bridegroom. 

Alcander's exultation in his own happiness, or 
being unable to enjoy any satisfaction without making 
his friend Septimius a partner, prevailed upon him to 
introduce Hypatia to his fellow-student ; which he 
did, with all the gaiety of a man who found himself 
equally happy in friendship and love. But this was 
an interview fatal to the future peace of both ; for 
Septimius no sooner saw her but he was smitten with 
an involuntary passion ; and, though he used every 
effort to suppress desires at once so imprudent and 
unjust, the emotions of his mind in a short time became 
so strong, that they brought on a- fever, which the 
physicians judged incurable. 

During this illness Alcander watched him with all 
the anxiety of fondness, and brought his mistress to 
join in those amiable offices of friendship. The saga- 
city of the physicians, by these means, soon discovered 
that the cause of their patient's disorder was love ; and 
Alcander, being apprized of their discovery, at length 
extorted a confession from the reluctant dying lover. 

It would but delay the narrative to describe the 
conflict between love and friendship in the breast of 
Alcander on this occasion : it is enough to say that the 
Athenians were at that time arrived at such refine- 
ment in morals, that every virtue was carried to excess : 
in short, forgetful of his own felicity, he gave up his 
intended bride, in all her charms, to the young Iloman. 
They were married privately by his connivance, and 
this unlooked-for change of fortune wrought as unex- 
pected a change in the constitution of the now happy 
Septimius. In a few days he was perfectly recovered, 
and set out with his fair partner for Rome. Here, by 
an exertion of those talents which he was so eminently 
possessed of, Septimius, in a few years, arrived at the 



256 ESSAYS. 

highest dignities of the state, and was constituted the 
city judge, or prsetor. 

In the mean time Alcander not only felt the pain of 
being separated from his friend and his mistress, but a 
prosecution was commenced against him by the rela- 
tions of Hypatia, for having basely given up his bride, 
as was suggested, for money. His innocence of the 
crime laid to his charge, and even his eloquence in his 
own defence, were not able to withstand the influence 
of a powerful party. He was cast, and condemned to 
pay an enormous fine. However, being unable to raise 
so large a sum at the time appointed, his possessions 
were confiscated, he himself was stripped of the habit 
of freedom, exposed as a slave in the market-place, 
and sold to the highest bidder. 

A merchant of Thrace becoming his purchaser, 
Alcander, with some other companions of distress, was 
carried into that region of desolation and sterility. His 
stated employment was to follow the herds of an im- 
perious master, and his success in hunting was all that 
was allowed him to supply his precarious subsistence. 
Every morning awaked him to a renewal of famine or 
toil, and every change of season served but to aggra- 
vate his unsheltered distress. After some years of 
bondage, however, an opportunity of escaping offered ; 
he embraced it with ardour; so that travelling by 
night, and lodging in caverns by day, to shorten a long 
story, he at last arrived in Rome. The same day on 
. which Alcander arrived, Septimius sat administering 
justice in the forum, whither our wanderer came, 
expecting to be instantly known, and publicly acknow- 
ledged, by his former friend. Here he stood the whole 
day amongst the crowd, watching the eyes of the 
judge, and expecting to be taken notice of; but be 
was so much altered by a long succession of hardships, 
that he continued unnoticed amongst the rest ; and in 
the evening, when he was going up to the praetor's 
chair, he was brutally repulsed by the attending 
lictors. The attention of the poor is generally driven 
from one ungrateful object to another; for night 



ESS.VYS. 257 

coming on, he now found himself under the necessity 
of seeking a place to lie in, and yet knew not where 
to apply. All emaciated, and in rags, as he was, none 
of the citizens would harbour so much wretchedness ; 
and sleeping in the streets might be attended with in- 
terruption or danger ; in short, he was obliged to take 
up his lodgings in one of the tombs without the city, 
the usual retreat of guilt, poverty, and despair. In 
this mansion of horror, laying his head upon an in- 
verted urn, he forgot his miseries for a while in sleep, 
and found on his flinty couch more ease than beds of 
down can supply to the guilty. 

As he continued here, about midnight two robbers 
came to make this their retreat, but happening to dis- 
agree about the division of their plunder, one of them 
stabbed the other to the heart, and left him weltering 
in blood at the entrance. In these circumstances he 
was found next morning dead at the mouth of the 
vault. This naturally inducing a farther inquiry, an 
alarm was spread ; the cave was examined ; and 
Alcander being found, was immediately apprehended, 
and accused of robbery and murder. The circum- 
stances against him were strong, and the wretchedness 
of his appearance confirmed suspicion. Misfortune 
and he were now so long acquainted, that he at last 
became regardless of life. He detested a world where 
he had found only ingratitude, falsehood, and cruelty ; 
he was determined to make no defence ; and thus, 
lowenng with resolution, he was dragged bound with 
cords before the tribunal of Septimius. As the proofs 
were positive against him, and he offered nothing in 
his own vindication, the judge was proceeding to doom 
him to a most cruel and ignominious death, when the 
attention of the multitude was soon diverted by another 
object. The robber, who had been really guilty, was 
apprehended selling his plunder, and, struck with a 
panic, had confessed his crime. He was brought bound 
to the same tribunal, and acquitted every other person 
of any partnership in his guilt. Alcander's innocence 
therefore appeared; but the sullen rashness of hb 



258 ESSAYS. 

conduct remained a wonder to the surrounding multi- 
tude ; but their astonishment was still farther increased 
when they saw their judge start from his tribunal to 
embrace the supposed criminal. Septimius recollected 
his friend and former benefactor, and hung upon his 
neck with tears of pity and joy. Need the sequel be 
related ! — Alcander was acquitted, shared the friend- 
ship and honours of the principal citizens of Rome, 
lived afterwards in happiness and ease, and left it to 
be engraved on his tomb, that no circumstances are 
so desperate which Providence may not relieve. 



ON HAPPINESS OF TEMPER. 

When I reflect on the unambitious retirement in 
which I passed the early part of my life in the countiy, 
1 cannot avoid feeling some pain in thinking that those 
happy days are never to return. In that retreat all 
nature seemed capable of affording pleasure; I then 
made no refinements on happiness, but could be 
pleased with' the most awkward efforts of rustic mirth, 
thought cross-purposes the highest stretch of human 
wit, and questions and commands the most rational 
way of spending the evening. Happy could so charm- 
ing an illusion continue ! I find that age and know- 
ledge only contribute to sour our dispositions. My 
present enjoyments may be more refined, but they are 
infinitely less pleasing. The pleasure the best actor 
gives, can no way compare to that I have received from 
1 country wag who imitated a quaker's sermon. The 
music of the finest singer is dissonance to what I felt 
when our old dairy-maid sung rae into tears with John- 
ny Armstrong's Last Good Night, or the Cruelty of 
Barbara Allen. 

V^ritrrs of every age have endeavoured to shew that 
pleasure is in us, and not in the objects offered for 
our amusement. If the soul be happily disposed, 
every thing becomes capable of affording entertain- 
ment, and distress will almost want a name. Every 



ESSAYS. 259 

occurrence passes in review like the figures of a pro- 
cession : some may be awkward, others ill dressed ; 
but none but a fool is for this enraged with the master 
of the ceremonies. 

I remember to have once seen a slave in a fortifica- 
tion in Flanders, who appeared no way touched with 
his situation,. He vcas maimed, deformed, and chained ; 
obliged to toil from the appearance of day till night- 
fall ; and condemned to this for life : yet, with all 
these circumstances of apparent wretchedness, he 
sung, would have danced but that he wanted a leg, 
and appeared the merriest, happiest man of all the 
garrison. What a practical philosopher was here ! a 
happy constitution supplied philosophy ; and, thoucrh 
seemingly destitute of wisdom, he was really wise. No 
reading or study had contributed to disenchant the 
fairy-land around him. Every thing furnished him 
with an opportunity of mirth ; and, though some 
thought him, from his insensibility, a fool, he was such 
an idiot as philosophers should wish to imitate ; for 
all philosophy is only forcing the trade of happiness, 
when nature seems to deny the means. 

They who, like our slave, can place themselves on 
that side of the world in which every thing appears in 
a pleasing light, will find something in every occur- 
rence to excite their good-humour. The most cala- 
mitous events, either to themselves or others, can bring 
no new affliction ; the whole world is to them a theake, 
on which comedies only are acted. All the bustle of 
heroism, or the rants of ambition, serve only to heighten 
the absurdity of the scene, and make the humour more 
poignant. They feel, in short, as little anguish at 
their own distress, or the complaints of others, as ;he 
undertaker, though dressed in black, feels sorrow at a 
funeral. 

Of all the men I ever read of, the famous cardinal 
de Retz possessed this happiness of temper in the 
highest degree. As he was a man of gallantry, and 
despised all that wore the pedantic appearance of 
ohilosophy, wherever pleasure was to be sold, he was 



260 ESSAYS. 

generally foremost to raise the auction. Being a uni- 
versal admirer of the fair sex, when he found one lady 
cruel, he generally fell in love with another, from 
whom he expected a more favourable reception. If 
she too rejected his addresses, he never thought of 
retiring into deserts, or pining in hopeless distress : he 
persuaded himself, that instead of loving the lady, he 
only fancied that he had loved her, and so all was 
well again. When Fortune wore her angriest, look, 
and he at last fell into the power of bis most deadly 
enemy. Cardinal Mazarine (being confined a close 
prisoner in the castle of Valenciennes), he never at- 
tempted to support his distress by wisdom or philo- 
sophy, for he pretended to neither. He only laughed 
at himself and his persecutor, and seemed infinitely 
pleased at his new situation. In this mansion of dis- 
tress, though secluded from his friends, though denied 
all the amusements, and even the conveniences of life, 
he still retained his good-humour, laughed at all the 
little spite of his enemies, and carried the jest so far as 
to be revenged by writing the life of his jailer. 

All that the wisdom of the proud can teach is, to 
be stubborn or sullen under misfortunes. The car- 
dinal's example will instruct us to be merry in cir- 
cumstances of the highest affliction. It matters not 
whether our good-humour be construed by others into 
insensibility, or even idiotism ; it is happiness^to our- 
selves, and none but a fool would measure his satis- 
faction by what the world thinks of it ; for my own 
part, I never pass by one of our prisons for debt, that 
1 do not envy that felicity which is still going forward 
among those people, vpho forget the cares of the world 
by being shut out from its silly ambition. 

The happiest silly fellow I ever knevT, was of tke 
number- of those good-natured creatures that are said 
to do no harm to any but themselves. iVhenever he 
fell inio misery, he usually called it seeing life. If 
his head was broke by a chairman, or his pocket 
pickfd by a sharper, he comforted himself by imitating 
the Hibernian dialect of the one, or the more fashion- 



E.SSAVS. 261 

able cant of the other. Noihiiiy carmi amiss to him. 
His inattention to money-matters liad incensed his fa- 
ther to such a degree, that all the intercession of friends 
in his favour was fruitless. The old gentleman was 
on his death-bed. The whole family, and Dick among 
the number, gathered around him. ' I leave my se- 
cond son, Andrew,' said the expiring miser, ' my whole 
estate, and desire him to be frugal.' Andrew, in a 
sorrowful tone, as is usual on these occasions, prayed 
Heaven to prolong his life and health to enjoy it him- 
self. ' I recommend Simon, my third son, to the care 
of his elder brother, and leave him beside four thou- 
sand pounds.' — ' Ah 1 father,' cried Simon, in great 
affliction to be sure, ' may Heaven give you life and 
health to enjoy it yourself !' At last, turning to poor 
Dick, 'As for you, you have always been a sad dog ; 
you'll never come to good ; you'll never be rich ; I'll 
leave you a shilling to buy a halter.' — ' Ah ! father,' 
cries Dick, without any emotion, ' may Heaven give 
you life and health to enjoy it yourselT 1' This was 
all the trouble the loss of fortune gave this thoughtless, 
imprudent creature. However, the tenderness of an 
uncle recompensed the neglect of a father ; and my 
friend is now not only excessively good-humoured, 
but competently rich. 

Yes, let the world cry out at a bankrupt who ap- 
pears at a ball, at an author who laughs at the public, 
which pronounces him a dunce, at a general who 
smiles at the approach of the vulgar, or the lady who 
keeps her good-humour in spite of scandal ; but such 
is the wisest behaviour that any of us can possibly 
assume. It is certainly a better way to oppose cala- 
mity by dissipation, than to take up the arms of reason 
or resolution to oppose it ; by the first method, we 
forget our miseries ; by the last, we only conceal them 
from others : by struggling with misfortunes, we are 
sure to receive some wounds in the conflict ; but 
a sure method to come off victorious, is by running 
away. 



2u2 ESSAYS. 

DESCRIPTION OF VARIOUS CLUBS. 

I REMEMBER to have read in some philosopher (I be- 
lieve in Tom Brown's works), that, let a man's cha- 
racter, sentiments, or complexion, be what they will, 
he can find company in London to match them. If 
he be splenetic, he may every day meet companions 
ou the seats in St. James's Park, with whose groans 
he may mix his own, and pathetically talk of the 
weather. If he be passionate, he may vent his rage 
among the old orators at Slaughter's coffee-house, and 
damn the nation because it keeps him from starving. 
If he be phlegmatic, he may sit in silence at the 
Humdrum club in Ivy-la-ne ; and, if actually mad, 
he may find very good company in Moorfields, either 
at Bedlam or the Foundry, ready to cultivate a nearer 
acquaintance. 

But, although such as have a knowledge of the 
town may easily class themselves with tempers con- 
genial to their own, a countryman who comes to live 
in London finds nothing more difficult. With regard 
to myself, none ever tried with more assiduity, or came 
off with such indifferent success. I spent a whole 
season in the search, during which time my name has 
been enrolled in societies, lodges, convocations, and 
meetings without number. To some I was introduced 
by a friend, to others invited by an advertisement; to 
these I introduced myself, and to those I changed 
my name to gain admittance. In short, no coquet 
was ever more solicitous to match her ribands to her 
complexion, than t to suit my club to my temper; 
for I was too obstinate to bring my temper to conform 
to it. 

The first club I entered upon coming to town, was 
that of the Choice Spirits. The name was entirely 
suited to my taste ; I was a lover of mirth, good- 
humour, a-nd even sometimes of fun, from my child- 
hood. 

As no other passport was requisite but the payment 
of two shillings at the door, I introduced myself with- 



ESSAYS. 263 

out farther ceremony to the members, who weie al- 
ready assembled, and had, for some time, begun upon 
business. The grand, with a mallet in his hand, pre- 
^sided at the head of the table. I could not avoid, 
upon my entrance, making use of all my skill in phy- 
siognomy, in order to discover that superiority of ge- 
nius in men who had taken a title so superior to the 
rest of mankind. I expected to see the lines of every 
face marked with strong thinking ; but, though I had 
some skill in this science, I could for my life discover 
nothing but a pert simper, fat or profound stupidity. 

My speculations were soon interrupted by the grand, 
who had knocked down Mr. Spriggins for a song. I 
was, upon this, whispered by one of the company who 
sat next me, that 1 should now see something touched 
- off to a nicety, for Mr. Spriggins was going to give us 
Mad Tom in all its glory. Mr. Spriggins endeavoured 
to excuse himself; for, as he was to act a madman 
and a king, ^t was impossible to go through the part 
properly without a crown and chains. His excuses 
were overruled by a great majority, and with much 
vociferation. The president ordered up the jack-chain ; 
and, instead of a crown, our performer covered his 
brows with an inverted Jordan. After he had rattled 
his chain, and shook his head, to the great delight of 
the whole company, he began his song. As 1 have 
heard few young fellows offer to sing in company that 
did not expose themselves, it was no great disappoint- 
ment to me to find Mr. Spriggins among the number ; 
however, not to seem an odd fish, I rose from my seat 
in rapture, cried out, ' Bravo ! encore !' and slapped 
the table as loud as any of the rest. 

The gentleman who sat next me seemed highly 
pleased with my taste, and the ardour of my approba- 
tion ; and whispering told me I had suffered an im- 
mense loss ; for, had I come a few minutes sooner, I 
might have heard Geeho Dobbin sung in a tiptop 
manner, by the pimple-nosed spirit at the president's 
right elbow : but he was evaporated before I came. 
As I was expressing my uneasiness at this disap- 

b 



264 ESSAYS. 

pointtnent, I found the attention of the company em. 
ployed upon a fat figure, who, with a voice more rough 
than the Staffordshire giant's, was giving us the ' Softly 
sweet, in Lydian measure,' of Alexander's Feast. After 
a short pause of admiration, to this succeeded a Welsh 
dialogue, with the humours of Teague and Taffy; after 
that came on Old Jackson, with a story between every 
stanza : next was sung the Dust-Cart, and then Solo- 
mon's Song. The glass began now to circulate pretty 
freely; those who were silent when sober, would now 
be heard in their turn ; every man had his song, and 
he saw no reason why he should not be heard as well 
as any of the rest : one begged to be heard while he 
gave Death and the Lady in high taste ; another sung 
to a plate which he kept trundling on the edges ; no- 
thing was now heard but singing ; voice rose above 
voice, and the whole became one universal shout, 
when the landlord came to acquaint the company that 
the reckoning was drunk out. Rabelais calls the mo- 
ments in which a reckoning is mentioned, the most 
melancholy of our lives : never was so much noise so 
quickly quelled, as by this short but pathetic oration 
of our landlord. ' Drunk out !' was echoed in a tone 
of discontent round the table : ' drunk out already ! 
that was very odd ! that so much punch could be drunk 
out already ! impossible !' The landlord, however, seem- 
ing resolved not to retreat from his first assurances, 
the company was dissolved, and a president chosen 
for the night ensuing. 

A friend of mine, to whom I was complaining some 
time after of the entertainment I have been describ- 
ing, proposed to bring me to the club that he fre- 
quented ; which, he fancied, would suit the gravity 
of my temper exactly. * We have, at the ]\Iuzzy 
club,' says he, ' no riotous mirth nor awkward ribald- 
ry ; no confusion or baw9ing ; all is conducted with 
wisdom and decency: besides, some of our members 
are worth forty thousand pounds ; men of puidenoe 
\nd foresight everyone of them : these are the pioper 
icquaintance, and to such I will to-night iniroauce 



ESSAYS. 2G5 

50U.' I was charmed at the proposal; to be ac- 
quainted with men worth forty thousand pounds, and 
to talk wisdom the whole night, were offers that threw 
me into rapture. 

At seven o'clock I was accordingly introduced by 
my friend ; not indeed to the company^ for, ihouoh 1 
made my best bow, they seemed insensible of my^ap- 
proach ; but to the table at which they were sitting 
Upon my entering the room, I could not avoid feeling 
a secret veneration from the solemnity of the scene 
before me ; the members kept a profound silence, each 
with a pipe in his mouth and a pewter pot in his hand 
and with faces that might easily be construed into ab- 
solute wisdom. Happy society ! thought I to myself 
where the members think before they speak, deliver 
nothing rashly, but convey their thoughts to each other 
pregnant with meaning, and matured by reflection. 

in this pleasing specullition I continued a full half 
hour, expectmg each moment that somebody would 
begin to open his mouth ; every time the pipe was 
aid down 1 expected it was to speak ; but it was only 
to spit. At length, resolving to break the charm mv- 
seJt, and overcome their extreme diffidence, for to tliis 
1 imputed their silence, I rubbed my hands, and 
looking as wise as possible, observed that the nights 
began to grow a Jittie coolish at this time of the year 
I his, as It was directed to none, of the company iri 
particular, none thought himself obliged to answer • 
wherefore 1 continued still to rub my hands and look 
wise. My next effort was addressed to a gemleman 
who sat next me ; to whom 1 observed, that the beer 
was extremely good ; my neighbour made no reply 
out by a large puff of tobacco smoke. 

I now began to be uneasy in this dumb society till 
one of them a little relieved me by observing, that 
bread had not risen these three weeks. ' Ah i' says 
another, still keeping the pipe in bis mouth, ' that 
puts me in mind of a pleasant story about that— hem 
—very well ; you must know— but, before I beoin— 
Bir, my service to you— where was I '' ° 

N 



2CG ESSAYS. 

My next club goes by the name of the Hawnonical 
Society ; probably from that love of order and friend- 
ship which every person commends in institutions of 
this nature. The landlord was himself founder. The 
money spent is fourpence each ; and they sometimes 
whip for a double reckoning. To this club feW le- 
commendations are requisite except the introductory 
fourpence, and my landlord's good word, which, as 
he gains by it, he never refuses. 

We all here talked and behaved as every body else 
usually does on his club-night ; we discussed the 
topic of the day, drank each other's healths, snuffed 
the candles with our fingers, and filled our pipes from 
the same plate of tobacco. The company saluted 
each other in the common manner. Mr. Bellows- 
mender hoped Mr. Currycomb-maker had not caught 
cold going home the last club-night; and he returned 
the compliment by hopingthat young Master Bellows- 
mender had got well again of the chin-cough. Doctor 
Twist told us a story of a parliament man with whom 
he was intimately acquainted ; while the bug-man, at 
the same time, was telling a better story of a noble 
lord with whom he could do any thing. A gentleman 
in a black wig and leather breeches, at the other end 
of the table, was engaged in a long narrative of the 
ghost in Cock-lane : he had read it in the papers of 
the day, and was telling it to some that sat next him, 
who could not read. Near him Mr. Dibbins'was dis- 
puting on the old subject of religion with a Jew pedlar, 
over the table, vi^hile the president vainly knocked 
down Mr. Leathersides for a song. Besides the com- 
bination of these voices, which I could hear all to- 
gether, and which formed an upper part to the con- 
cert, there were several others playing under parts by 
themselves, and endeavouring to fasten on some luck- 
less neighbour's ear, who was himself bent upon the 
same design against some other. 

We have often heard of the speech of a corporation, 
and this induced me to transcribe a speech of this club, 
taken in short hand, word for vvord, as it was spoken 



by every member of the company. It may be neces- 
sary to observe, that the man who told of the ghost 
had the loudest voice, and the longest story to tell, so 
that his continuing narrative filled every chasm in the 
conversation. 

' So, sir, d'ye perceive me, the ghost giving three 
loud raps at the bed-post' — ' Says my lord to me. My 
dear Smokeum, you know there is no man upon the 
face of the yearth for whom I have so high' — ' A 
damnable false heretical opinion of all sound doctrine 
and good learning ; for I'll tell it aloud, and spare 
not, that' — ' Silence for a song ; Mr. Leathersides for 
a song' — ' As I was walking upon the high way, I 
met a young damsel' — ' Then what brings you heiel 
says the parson to the ghost' — ' Sanconiathon, Mane- 
tho, and Berosus' — ' The whole way from Islino-ton 
turnpike to Dog-house bar' — ' Dam' — ' As for Abel 
Drugger, sir, he's damn'd low in it ; my prentice boy 
has more of the gentleman than he' — ' for murder 
will out one time or another ; and none but a ghost, 
you know, gentlemen, can' — ' Damme if I don't ; for 
my friend, whom you know, gentlemen, and who is a 
parliament man, a man of consequence, a dear honest 
creature, to be sure-; we were laughing last nio-ht at' 
— ' Death and damnation upon all his posterity by' 
simply barely tasting' — ' Sour grapes, as the fox said 
once when he could not reach them; and I'll, I'll 
tell you a story about that, that will make you burst 
your sides with laughing. A fox once' — ' Will nobody 
listen to the songf — ' As I was a walking upon the 
highway, I met a young damsel both buxom and 
gay' — ' No ghost, gentlemen, can be murdered ; nor 
did I ever hear but of one ghost killed in all my life, 
and that was stabbed in the belly with a' — ' My blood 
and soul if I don't' — ' Mr. Bellows-mender; I have 
the honour of drinking your very good health' — 
' Blast me if I do' — ' Dam' — ' Blood' — ' Bugs' — 
' Fire'—' Whiz'—' Blid'— ' Tit'—' Rat' — ' Trip'— 
The rest all riot, nonsense, and rapid confusion. 

Were I to be angry at men for being fools, I cou\d 



ms r.ssAYs. 

here find ample room for declamation ; but, alas ! 1 
have been a fool myself ; and why should I be angry 
with them for being something so natural to every 
child of humanity 1 

Fatigued with this society, I was introduced, the 
following night, to a club of fashion. On taking my 
place, I found the conversation sufficiently easy, and 
tolerably good-natured ; for my lord and Sir Paul 
were not yet arrived. I now thought myself com- 
pletely fitted, and resolving to seek no farther, de- 
termined to take up my residence here for the winter : 
while my temper began to open insensibly to the 
cheerfulness I saw diflfused on every face in the 
room : but the delusion soon vanished, when the 
waiter came to apprize us that his lordship and Sir 
Paul were just arrived. 

From this moment all our felicity was at an end ; 
our new guests bustled into the room, and took their 
seats at the head of the table. Adieu now all con- 
fidence ; every creature strove who should most re- 
comm.end himself to our members of distinction. Each 
seemed quite regardless of pleasing any but our new 
guests ; and what before wore the appearance of 
friendship, was now turned into rivalry. 

Yet I could not observe that, amidst all this flat- 
tery and obsequious attention, our great men took any 
notice of the rest of the company. Their wjiole dis- 
course was addressed to each other. Sir Paul told 
his lordship a long story of Moravia the Jew ; and 
his lordship gave Sir Paul a very long account of his 
new method of managing silkworms ; he led him, and 
consequently the rest of the company, through all the 
stages of feeding, sunning, and hatching ; with an 
episode on mulberry-trees, a digression upon grass- 
seeds, and a long parenthesis about his new postilion. 
In this manner we travelled on, wishing every story 
to be the last ; but all in vain : 

' Hills over hills, and Alps on Alps arose.' 

The last club in which I was enrolled a member. 



ESSAYS. 



269 



was a society of moral philosophers, as they called 
themselves, who assembled twice a week, in cider to 
shew the absurdity of the present mode of religion, 
and establish a new one in its stead. 

I found the members very warmly disputing when 
I arrived ; not indeed about religion or ethics, but 
about who had neglected to lay down his preliminary 
sixpence upon entering the room. The president 
swore that he had laid his own down, and so swore all 
the company. 

During this contest, I had an opportunity of ob- 
serving the laws, and also the members, of the society. 
The president, who had been, as I was told, lately a 
bankrupt, was a tall, pale figure, Vv-ith a long black 
wig the next to him was dressed in a large white 
wig, and a black cravat : a third, by the brownness 
of his complexion, seemed a native of Jamaica ; and 
a fourth, by his hue, appeared to be a blacksmith. 
But their rules will give liie most just idea of their 
learning and principles. 

' I. We, being a laudable society of moral philoso- 
phers, intend to dispute twice a week about religion 
and priestcraft ; leaving behind us old wives' tales, 
and following good learning and sound sense : and if 
so be, that any other persons has a mind to be of the 
society, they shall be entitled so to do, upon paying 
the sum of three shillings, to be spent by the company 
in punch. 

' II. That no member get drunk before nine of the 
clock, upon pain of forfeiting three-pence, to be spent 
by the company in punch. 

'III. That as members are sometimes apt to go 
away without paying, every person shall pay sixpence 
upon his entering the room ; and all disputes shall be 
settled by a majority; and all fines shall b^ paid in 
punch. 

' IV. That sixpence shall be every night given to 
ibe president, in order to buy books of learning for the 
good of the society ; the president has already put him- 
self to a good deal of expense in buying books for the 



270 



ESSAYS. 



club; particularly the works of Tully, Socrates, 
Cicero, which he will soon read to the society. 

' V. All them who brings a new argument against 
religion, and who, being a philosopher, and a man of 
learning, as the rest of us is, shall be admitted to the 
freedom of the society, upon paying sixpence only, to 
be spent in punch. 

' VI. Whenever we are to have an extraordinary 
meeting, it shall be advertised by some outlandish 
name in the newspapers. 

* Saunders Mac Wild, president, 
Anthony Blewit, vice-president, 

his f mark. 
William Turpin, secretary.' 



ON THE POLICY OF CONCEALING OUR WANTS, 
OK POVERTY. 

It is usually said by grammarians, that the use of lan- 
guage is to express our wants and desires ; but men 
who know the world hold, and I think with some show 
of reason, that he who best knows how to keep his ne- 
cessities private, is the most likely person to have them 
redressed ; and that the true use of speech is not so 
much to express our wants as to conceal theni. 

When we reflect on the manner in which jnankind 
generally confer their favours, there appears something 
so attractive in riches, that the large heap generally 
collects from the smaller : and the pobr find as much 
pleasure in increasing the enormous mass of the rich, 
as the miser, who owns it, sees happiness in its increase. 
Nor is there in this any thing repugnant to the laws of 
morality. Seneca himself allows, that, in conferring 
benefits, the present should always be suited to the 
dignity of the receiver. Thus the rich receive large 
•presents, and are thanked for accepting them. Men 
of middling stations are obliged to be content with 
presents something less j -while the beggar, who may 



be trul}' said to waul indeed, is wall paid if a taituuig 
rewards his warmest solicitations. 

Every man who has seen the world, and has had his 
ups and downs in life, as the expression is, must have 
frequently experienced the truth of this doctrine; and 
must know, that to have much, or to seem to have it, 
is the only way to have more. Ovid finely compares 
a man of broken fortune to a falling column ; the 
lower it sinks, the greater weight it is obliged to sus- 
tain. Thus, v?hen a man's circumstances are such 
that he has no occasion to borrow, he finds numbers 
willing to lend him ; but should his wants be such, 
that he sues for a trifle, it is two to one whether he 
may be trusted with the smallest sum. A certain 
young fellow, whom I knew, whenever he had occa- 
sion to ask his friend for a guinea, used#o prelude his 
request as if he wanted two hundred ; and talked so 
familiarly of large sums, that none could ever think 
he wanted a small one. The same gentleman, when- 
ever he wanted credit for a suit of clothes, always made 
the proposal in a laced coat ; for he found, by expe- 
rience, that if he appeared shabby on these occasions, 
his tailor had taken an oath against trusting, or, what 
was every whit as bad, his foreman was out of the 
way, and would not be at home for some time. 

There can be no inducement to reveal our wants, 
except to find pity, and by this means relief; but 
before a poor man opens his mind in such circum- 
stances, he should first consider whether he is con- 
tented to lose the esteem of the person he solicits, and 
whether he is willing to give up friendship to excite 
compassion. Pity and friendship are passions incom- 
patible with each other ; and it is impossible that both 
can reside in any breast, for the smallest space, with- 
out impairing each other. Friendship is made up of 
esteem and pleasure ; pity is composed of sorrow and 
contempt: the mind may, for some time, fluctuate 
between them, but it can never entertain both at once. 

In fact, pity, though it may often relieve, is but, at 
best, a short-lived passion, and seldom affords distress 



272 ESSAVtj. 

more thac transitory assistance ; with some it scarce 
lasts from tiie tirst impulse till the hand can be put into 
the pocket ; with others it may continue for twice that 
space ; and on some of extraordinary sensibility, 1 have 
seen it operate for half an hour together ; but still, 
last as it may, itgenerally producesbut beggarly effects, 
and where, from this motive, we give five farthings, 
from others we give pounds : whatever be our feelings 
from the first impulse of distress, when the same dis- 
tress solicits a second time, we then feel with dimi- 
nished sensibility ; and, like the repetition of an echo, 
every stroke becomes weaker ; till, at last, our sensa- 
tions lose all mixture of sorrow, and degenerate into 
downright contempt. 

These speculations bring to my mind the fate of a 
very good-nakired fellow who is now no more. He 
was bred in a counting-house, and his father dying 
just as he was out of his time, left him a handsome 
fortune, and many friends to advise with. The re- 
straint in which my friend had been brought up, had 
thrown a gloom upon his temper, which some re- 
garded as prudence ; and, from such considerations, 
he had every day repeated offers of friendship. Such 
as had money, were ready to offer him their assistance 
that way ; and they who had daughters, frequently, 
in the warmth of affection, advised him to marry. My 
friend, however, was in good circumstances ; he 
wanted neither their money, friends, nor a wife ; and 
therefore modestly declined their proposals. 

Some errors, however, in the management of his 
affairs, and several losses in trade, soon brought him to 
a different way of tiiinking ; and he at last considered, 
that it was his best way to let his friends know that 
their offers were at length acceptable. His first ad- 
dress was to a scrivener, who had formerly made him 
frequent offers of money and friendship, at a time 
when, perhaps, he knew those offers would have been 
refused. As a man, therefore, confident of not being 
refused, he requested the use of a hundred guineas for 
a few days, as he just then had occasion for money. 



ESSAYS. 273 

' And pray, sir,' replied the scrivener, ' do you want 
all this money T — ' Want it, sir !' says the other ; ' if 
I did not want it I should not hav6 asked it.' — ' I am 
sorry for that,' says the friend, ' for those who want 
money when they borrow, will always want money 
when they should come to pay. To say the truth, sir, 
money is money now ; and 1 believe it is all sunk, in 
the bottom of the sea, for my part ; he that has got a 
little, is a fool if he does not keep what he has got.' 

Not quite disconcerted by this refusal, our adven- 
turer was resolved to try another, who he knew was 
the very best friend he had in the world. The gentle- 
man whom he now addressed, received his proposal 
with all the affability that could be expected from 
generous friendship. ' Let me see, you want a hun- 
dred guineas : and pray, dear Jack, would not fifty 
answer ?' — ' If you have but fifty to spare, sir, I must 
be contented.' — ' Fifty to spare ! I do not say that, 
for I believe I have but twenty about me.' — ' Then I 
must borrow the other thirty from some other friend.' 
— ' And pray,' replied the friend, ' would it not be the 
best way to borrow the whole money from that other 
friend, and then one note will serve for all, you know "i 
You know, my dear sir, that you need make no cere- 
mony with me at any time ; you know, I'm your 
friend ; and when you choose a bit of dinner or so-^ 
You, Tom, see the gentleman down. You won't for- 
get to dine with us now and then. Your very humble 
servant.' 

Distressed, but not discouraged, at this treatment, 
he was at last resolved to find that assistance from 
love, which he could not have from friendship. A 
young lady, a distant relation by the mother's side, 
had a fortune in her own hands ; and, as she had 
already made all the advances that her sex's modesty 
would permit, he made his proposal with confidence. 
He soon, however, perceived that no bankrupt ever 
found the fair one kind. She had lately fallen deeply 
in love with another, who had more money, an.d the 
whole neighbourhood thought it would be a match. 
N 2 



274 ESSAYS. 

Every day now began to strip my poor friend of liia 
former finery ; his clothes flew, piece by piece, to the 
pawnbroker's, and he seemed at length equipped in 
the genuine livery of misfortune. But still he thought 
himself secure from actual necessity ; the numberless 
invitations he had received to dine, even after his losses, 
were yet unanswered ; he was therefore now resolved 
to accept of a dinner, because he wanted one ; and in 
this manner he actually lived among his friends a 
whole week without being openly affronted. The last 
place I saw him in was at a reverend divine's. He 
had, as he fancied, just nicked the time of dinner, for 
he came in as the cloth was laying. He took a chair,* 
without being desired, and talked for some time with- 
out being attended to. He assured the company, that 
nothing procured so good an appetite as a walk in the 
Park, where he had been that morning. He went on, 
and praised the figure of the damask table-cloth ; 
talked of a feast where he had been the day before, 
but that the venison was over-done. But all this pro- 
cured him no invitation : finding, therefore, the gen- 
tleman of the house insensible to all his fetches, he 
thought proper, at last, to retire, and mend his appetite 
by a second walk in the Park. 

You then, O ye beggars of my acquaintance, 
whether in rags or lace, whether in Kent-street or the 
Mall, whether at the Smyrna or St. Giles's, might I 
be permitted to advise as a friend, never seem to want 
the favour which you solicit. Apply to every passion but 
human pity for redress : you may find permanent relief 
from vanity, from self-interest, or from avarice, but 
from compassion never. The very eloquence of a poor 
man is disgusting ; and that mouth which is opened 
even by wisdom, is seldom expected to close without 
the horrors of a petition. 

I To ward off the gripe of Poverty, you must pretend 
to be a stranger to her, and she will at least use you 
with ceremony. If you be caught dining upon a half- 
penny porringer of peas-soup and potatoes, praise the 
whoiesomeness of your frugal repast. You may ob- 



ESSAYS. 275 

serve that Dr. Cheyne has prescribed peas-broth for 
the gravel ; hint that you are not one of those who 
are alvi'ays making a deity of your belly. If, again, 
you are obliged to wear a flimsy stuff in the midst of 
winter, be the first to remark, that stuffs are very 
much worn at Paris ; or, if there be found any irrepa- 
rable defects in any part of your equipage, which 
cannot be concealed by all the arts of sittmg cross- 
legged, coaxing, or darning, say, that neither you nor 
Sir Samson Gideon were ever very fond of dress. If 
you be a philosopher, hint that Plato or Seneca are 
the tailors you choose to employ ; assure the company 
that man ought to be content with a bare covering, 
since what now is so much his pride, was formerly his 
shame. In short, however caught, never give out ; 
but ascribe to the frugality of your disposition what 
others might be apt to attribute to the narrowness of 
your circumstances. To be poor, and to seem poor, 
is a certain method never to rise ; pride in the great is 
hateful; in the wise it is ridiculous; but beggarly 
pride is a rational vanity, which 1 have been taught to 
applaud and excuse. 

ON GENEROSITY AND JUSTICE. 
Lysippus is a man whose greatness of soul the whole 
world admires. His generosity is such, that it prevents 
a demand, and saves the receiver the confusion of a 
request, flis liberality also does not oblige more by 
its greatness, than by his inimitable grace in giving. 
Sometimes he even distributes his bounties to strangers, 
and has been known to do good offices to those who 
professed themselves his enemies. All the world are 
unanimous in the praise of his generosity ; there is 
only one sort of people who complain of his conduct. 
Lysippus does not pay his debts. 

It is no difficult matter to account for a conduct so 
seemingly incompatible with itself. There is greatness 
in being generous, and there is only simple justice in 



27G ESSAYS, 

satisfying creditors. Generosity is the part of a soul 
raised above the vulgar. There is in it something of 
what we admire in heroes, and praise with a degree of 
rapture. Justice, on the contrary, is a mechanic vir- 
tue, only fit for tradesmen, and what is practised by 
every broker in Change-alley. 

In paying his debts a man barely does his duty, and 
it is an action attended with no sort of glory. Should 
Lysippus satisfy his creditors, who would be at the 
pains of telling it to the world 1 Generosity is a virtue 
of a very different complexion. It is raised above 
duty, and from its elevation attracts the attention and 
the praises of us little mortals below. 

In this manner do men generally reason upon jus- 
tice and generosity. The first is despised, though a 
virtue essential to the good of society, and the other 
attracts our esteem, which too frequently proceeds 
from an impetuosity of temper, rather directed by 
vanity than reason. Lysippus is fold that his banker 
asks a debt of forty pounds, and that a distressed ac- 
quaintance petitions for the same sum. He gives it 
without hesitating to the latter, for he demands as a 
favour what the former requires as a debt. 

Mankind in general are not suffiiciently acquainted 
with the import of the word justice : it is commonly 
believed to consist only in a performance of those 
duties to which the laws of society can oblige us. This 
I allow is sometimes the import of the word, and in 
this sense justice is distinguished from equity ; but 
there is a justice still more extensive, and which can 
be shewn to embrace all the virtues united. 

Justice may be defined, that virtue which impels us 
to give to every person what is his due. In this ex- 
tended sense of the word, it comprehends the practice 
of every virtue which reason prescribes, or society 
should expect. Our duty to our Maker, to each other, 
and to ourselves, are fully answered, if we give them 
what we owe them. Thus justice, properly speaking, 
is the only virtue ; and all the rest have their origin 
in it. 



ESSAYS. 277 

The qualities of candour, fortitude, charity, and 
generosity, for instance, are not in their own naturs 
virtues ; and if ever they deserve the title, it is owing 
only to justice, which impels and directs them. With- 
out such a moderator, candour might become indis- 
cretion, fortitude obstinacy, charity imprudence, and 
generosity mistaken profusion. 

A disinterested action, if it be not conducted by 
justice, is, at best, indifferent in its nature, and not 
unfrequently even turns to vice. The expenses of 
society, of presents, of entertainments, and the other 
helps to cheerfulness, are actions merely indifferent, 
when not repugnant to a better method of disposing of 
our superfluities ; but they become vicious when they 
obstruct or exhaust our abilities from a more virtuous 
disposition of our circumstances. 

True generosity is a duty as indispensably necessary 
as those imposed upon us by law. It is a rule im- 
posed on us by reason, which should be the sovereign 
law of a rational being. But this generosity does not 
consist in obeying every impulse of humanity, in fol- 
lowing blind passion for our guide, and impairing our 
circumstances by present benefactions, so as to render 
us incapable of future ones. ^ 

Misers are generally characterized as men without 
honour, or without humanity, who live only to accu- 
mulate, and to this passion sacrifice every other happi- 
.. ness. They have been described as madmen, who, 
in the midst of abundance, banish every pleasure, and 
make, from imaginary wants, real necessities. But 
few, very few, correspond to this exaggerated picture ; 
and, perhaps, there is not one in whom all these cir- 
cumstances are found united. Instead of this, we 
find the sober and the industrious branded by the vain 
and the idle with this odious appellation ; men who, 
by frugality and labour, raise themselves above their 
equals, and contribute their share of industry to the 
common stock. 

Whatever the vain or the ignorant may say, well 
were it for society, had we more of these chaiacters 



27S ESSAYS. 

amongst us. In general these close men are found at 
last the true benefactors of society. With an avaricious 
man we seldom lose in our dealings, but too frequently 
in our commerce with prodigality. 

A French priest, whose name was Godinot, went 
for a long time by the name of the Griper. He re- 
fused to relieve the most apparent wretchedness, and, 
•by a skilful management of his vineyard, had the good 
fortune to acquire immense sums of money. The 
inhabitants of Rheims, who were his fellow-citizens, 
detested him ; and the populace, who seldom love a 
miser, wherever he went, followed him with shouts of 
contempt. He still, however, continued his former 
simplicity of life, his amazing and unremitted frugality. 
He had long perceived the wants of the poor in the 
city, particularly in having no water but what they 
were obliged to buy at an advanced price ; wherefore, 
that whole fortune which he had been amassing, he 
laid out in an aqueduct, by which he did the poor 
more useful and lasting service, than if he had distri- 
buted his whole income in charity every day at his 
door. 

Among men long conversant with books, we too 
frequently find those misplaced virtues, of whic"h I 
have been now Sbmplaining. We find the studious 
animated with a strong passion for the great virtues, 
as they are mistakingly called, and utterly forgetful 
of the ordinary ones. The declamations of phi-losophy 
are generally rather exhausted on those supererogatory 
duties, than on such as are indispensably necessary. 
A man, therefore, who has taken his ideas of mankind 
from study alone, generally comes into the world with 
a heart melting at every fictitious distress. Thus he 
is induced, by misplaced liberality, to put himself into 
the indigent circumstances of the person he relieves. 

I shall conclude this paper with the advice of one 
of the ancients, to a young man whom he saw giving 
away all his substance to pretended distress. ' It is 
possible, that the person you relieve ihay be an honest 
man ; and I know that you, who relieve bim, are 



ESSAYS. 279 

such. You see then, by your generosity, that you rob 
a man who is certainly deserving, to bestow it on one 
who may possibly be a rogue ; and, while you are 
unjust in rewarding uncertain merit, you are doubly 
guilty by stripping yourself.' 



ON THE EDUCATION OF YOUTH. 

As few subjects are more interesting to society, so few 
have been more frequently written upon, than the edu- 
cation of youth. Yet it is a little surprising that it 
has been treated almost by all in a declamatory man- 
ner. They have insisted largely on the advantages 
that result from it, both to individuals and to society; 
and have expatiated in the praise of what none have 
ever been so hardy as to call in question. 

Instead of giving us iine but empty harangues upon 
this subject, instead of indulging each his particular 
and whimsical systems, it had been mucii better if the 
writers on this subject had treated it in a more scien- 
tific manner, repressed all the sallies of imagination, 
and given us the result of their observations with di- 
dactic simplicity. Upon this subject, the cmallest 
errors are of the most dangerous consequence, and the 
author should venture the imputation of stupidity upon 
a topic, where his slightest deviations may tend to in- 
jure the rising generation. However, such are the 
whimsical and erroneous productions written upon this 
subject. Their authors have studied to be uncom- 
mon, not to be just ; and at present, we want a trea- 
tise upon education, not to tell us any thing new, but 
to explode the errors which have been introduced by 
the admirers of novelty. It is in this manner books be- 
come numerous ; a desire of novelty produces a book, 
and other books are required to destroy the former. 

I shall, therefore, throw out a few thoughts upon 
this subject, which, though knovvn, have not been at- 
tended to by others ; and shall dismiss all attempts to 
please, while I study only instruction. 



280 ESSAYS. 

The manner in wliich our youth of London are at 
present educated, is, some in free-schools in the city, 
but the far greater number in boarding-schools about 
town. The parent justly consults the health of his 
child, and finds an education in the country tends to 
promote this, much more than a continuance in town. 
, Thus far he is right ; if there were a possibility of 
having even our free-schools kept a little out of town, 
it would certainly conduce to the health and vigour 
of, perhaps, the mind as well as the body. It may be 
thought whimsical, but it is truth ; I have found by 
experience, that they, who have spent all their lives 
in cities, contract not only an effeminacy of habit, but 
even of thinking. 

But when I have said that the boarding-schools are 
preferable to free-schools, as being in the country, this 
is certainly the only advantage I can allow them : 
otherwise it is impossible to conceive the ignorance of 
those who take upon them the important trust of edu- 
cation. Is any man unfit for any of the professions, 
he finds his last resource in setting up a school. Do 
any become bankrupts in trade, they still set up a 
boarding-school, and drive a trade this way, when all 
others fail ; nay, I have been told of butchers and 
barbers, who have turned schoolmasters ; and, more 
surprising still, made fortunes in their new profession. 

Could we think ourselves in a country of civilized 
people, could it be conceived that we have any regard 
for posterity, when such are permitted to take the 
charge of the morals, genias, and health, of those dear 
little pledges, who may one day be the guardians of 
the liberties of Europe ; and who may serve as the 
honour and bulwark of their aged parents t The care 
of our children, is it below the state ■? Is it fit to in- 
dulge the caprice of the ignorant with the disposal of 
their children in this particular ? For the state to take 
the charge of all its children, as in Persia or Sparta, 
might at present be inconvenient ; but surely, with 
great ease, it might cast an eye to their instructors. Of 
all professions in society, I do not know a more useful. 



ESSAYS. 281 

or a more honourable one, than a schoolmaster ; at 
the same time that I do not see any more generally 
despised, or whose talents are so ill rewarded. 

Were the salaries of schoolmasters to be augmented 
from a diminution of useless sinecures, how might it 
turn to the advantage of this people ! a people whom, 
wit^hout flattery, I maj', in other respects, term the 
wisest and greatest upon earth. But while I would 
reward the deserving, I would dismiss those utterly 
unqualified for their employment : in short, I would 
make the business of a schoolmaster every way more 
respectable by increasing their salaries, and admitting 
only men of proper abilities. 

It is true we have schoolmasters appointed, and they 
have some small salaries ; but where at present there 
is only one sciioolmaster appointed, there should at 
least be two; and wherever the salary is at present 
t.\'enty pounds, it should be a hundred. Do we give 
immoderate benefices to those who instruct ourselves, 
and shall we deny even subsistence to those who in- 
struct our children? Every member of society should 
be paid in proportion as he is necessary ; and I will 
be bold enough to say, that schoolmasters in a state are 
more necessary than clergymen, as children stand in 
more need of instruction than their parents. 

But instead of this, as I have already observed, we 
send them to board in the country, to the most igno- 
rant set of men that can be imagined. But, lest the 
ignorance of the master be not sufficient, the child is 
generally consigned to the usher. This is commonly 
some poor needy animal, little superior to a footman 
either in learning or spirit, invited to his place by an 
advertisement, and kept there merely from his being 
of a complying disposition, and making the children 
fond of him. ' You give your child to be educated to 
a slave,' says a philosopher to a rich man ; ' instead 
of one slave you will then have two.' 

It were well, however, if parents upon fixing their 
children in one of these houses, would examine the 
abilities of the usher, as well as the master ; for what- 



282 . K.ss.vvs. 

ever they are told to the contrary, the usher is gene- 
rally the person most employed in their education. 
If, then, a gentleman, upon putting his son to one of 
these houses, sees the usher disregarded by the master 
he may depend upon it, that he is equally disregarded 
by the boys ; the truth is, in spite of ail their endea- 
vours to please, they are generally the laughing-stock 
of the school. Every trick is played upon the usher.' 
the oddity of his manners, his dress, or his language, 
are a fund of eternal ridicule ; the mastei himself, now 
and then, cannot avoid joining in the laugh ; and the 
poor wretch, eternally resenting this ill-usuage, seems 
to live in a state of war with all the family. This is 
a very proper person, is it not, to give children a relish 
for learning ? They must esteem learning very much, 
when they see its professors used with such little cere- 
mony ! If the usher be despised, the father may be 
assured that his child will never be properly in- 
structed. 

But let me suppose that there are some schools 
without these inconveniences, where the masters and 
ushers are men of learning, reputation, and assiduity. 
If there are to be found such, they cannot be prized 
in a state sufficiently. A boy will learn more true 
wisdom in a public school in a year, than by private 
education in five. It is not from masters, but from 
their equals, youth learn a knowledge of the world ; 
the little tricks they play each other, the punishment 
that frequently attends the commission, is a just pic- 
ture of tlie great world ; and all the ways of men are 
practised in a public school in miniature. It is true, 
a child is early made acquainted with some vices in 
a school ; but it is better to know these when a boy, 
than be first taught them when a man ; for their no- 
velty then may have irresistible charms. 

In a public education boys early learn temperance ; 
and if the parents and friends would give them less 
money upon their usual visits, it would be much to 
their advantage ; since it may justly be said, that a 
great part of their disorders arise from surfeit, ' plus 



K;5sAva. 283 

occidit gula quam gladius.' And now I am come to 
the article of health, it may not be amiss to observe, 
that Mr. Locke and some others have advised that 
children should be inured to cold, to fatigue, and 
hardship, from their youth ; but Mr. Locke was but an 
indifferent physician. Habit, I grant, has great in- 
fluence over our constitutions ; but we have not precise 
ideas upon this subject. 

We know that among savages, and even among our 
peasants, there are found children born with such 
constitutions, that they cross rivers by swimming, en- 
dure cold, thirst, hunger, and want of sleep, to a sur- 
prising degree ; that when they happen to fall sick, 
they are cured without the help of medicine, by nature 
alone. Such examples are adduced to persuade us to 
imitate their manner of education, and accustom our- 
selves betimes to support the same fatigues. But had 
Shese gentlemen considered first how many lives are 
lost in this ascetic practice ; had they considered, that 
those savages and peasants are generally not so long- 
lived as they who have led a more indolent life ; that 
the more laborious the life is, the less populous is the 
country ; had they considered, that what physicians 
call the ' stamina vitae,' by fatigue and labour be- 
come rigid, and thus anticipate old age ; that the 
number who survive those rude trials, bears no pro- 
portion to those who die in the experiment ; had these 
things been properly considered, they would not have 
thus extolled an education begun in fatigue and hard- 
ships. Peter the Great, willing to inure the children 
of his seamen to a life of hardship, ordered that they 
should only drink sea-water J but they unfortunately 
all died under the trial. 

But while I would exclude all unnecessary labours, 
yet still I would recommend temperance in the highest 
degree. No luxurious dishes with high seasoning, 
nothing given children to force an appetite; as little 
sugared or salted provisions as possible, though ever so 
pleasing ; but milk, morning and night, should be 
-heir constant food. This diet would make them more 



284 ESSAYS. 

healthy than any of those slops that are usually cooked 
by the mistress of a boarding-school ; besides, it coi- 
rects any consumptive habits, not unfrequently found 
amongst the children of city parents. 

As boys should be educated with temperance, so 
the first greatest lesson that should be taught them is 
to admire frugality. It is by the exercise of this virtue 
alone, they can ever expect to be useful members of 
society. It is true, lectures continually repeated upon 
this subject, may make some boys, vi^hen they grow 
up, run into an extreme, and become misers ; but it 
were well, had we more misers than we have amongst 
us. 1 know few characters more useful in society ; 
for a man's having a larger or smaller share of money 
lying useless by him, no way injures the common- 
wealth ; since, should every miser now exhaust his 
stores, this might make gold more plenty, but it would 
not increase the commodities or pleasures of life ; they 
would still remain as they are at present : it matters 
not, therefore, whether men are misers or not, if they 
be only frugal, laborious, and fill tlie station they have 
chosen. If they deny themselves the necessaries of 
life, society is no way injured by their folly. 

Instead, therefore, of romances, which praise young 
men of spirit, who go through a variety of adventures, 
and at last conclude a life of dissipation, folly, and 
extravagance, in riches and matrimony, there should 
be some men of wit employed to compose bojoks that 
might equally interest the passions of our youth, where 
such a one might be praised for having resisted allure- 
ments when young, and how he, at last, became lord 
mayor ; how he was married to a lady of great sense, 
fortune, and beauty : to be as explicit as possible, the 
old story of VVhittmgton, were his cat left out, might 
be more serviceable to the tender mind, than either 
Tom Jones, Joseph Andrews, or a hundred others, 
where frugality is the only good quality the hero is 
not possessed of. Were our schoolmasters, if any of 
them have sense enough to draw up such a work, thus 
employed, it would be much more serviceable to their 



.^. .'■ IS/ 



fiSSAYS. 



285 



pxipils, than all the grammars and dictionaries they 
may publish these ten years. 

Children should early be instructed in the arts from 
which they may afterward draw the greatest advan- 
tages. When the wonders of nature are never ex- 
posed to our view, we have no great desire to become 
acquainted with those parts of learning which pretend 
to account for the phenomena. One of the ancients 
complains, that as soon as young men have left school, 
and are obliged to converse ra the world, they fancy 
themselves transported into a new region. ' Ut, cum 
in forum venerint, existiment se in alium terrarum 
orbem delates.' We should early, therefore, instruct 
them in the experiments, if I may so express it, cf 
knowledge, and leave to maturer age the accounting 
for the causes. But, instead of that, when boys begin 
natural philosophy in colleges, they have not the least 
curiosity for those parts of the science which are pro- 
posed for their instruction ; they have never before 
seen the phenomena, and consequently have no curi- 
osity to learn the reasons. Might natural philosophy, 
therefore, be made their pastime in school, by this 
means it would in college become their amusement. 

In several of the machines now in use, there would 
be ample field both for instruction and amusement ; 
the different sorts of the phosphorus, the artificial 
pyrites, magnetism, electricity, the experiments upon 
the rarefaction and weight of the air, and those upon 
elastic bodies, might employ their idle hours; and 
none should be called from play to see such experi- 
ments but such as thought proper. At first, then, it 
would be sufficient if the instruments, and the effects 
of their combination, were only shewn ; the causes 
should be deferred to a maturer age, or to those times 
when natural curiosity prompts us to discover the 
wonders of nature. Man is placed in this world as a 
spectator ; when he is tired of wondering at all the 
novelties about him, and not till then, does he desire 
to be made acquainted with the causes that create 
those wonders. 

What I have observed with regard to natural phi- 



2S<3 ESSAYS. 

losophy, I would extend to every other science what- 
soever. We should teach them as many of the facts 
as were possible, and defer the causes until they 
seemed of themselves desirous of knowing them. A 
mind thus leaving school, stored with all the simple 
experiences of science, would be the fittest in the 
world for the college-course ; and, though such a 
youth might not appear so bright or so talkative, as 
those who had learned the real principles and causes 
of some of the sciences, yet he would make a wiser 
man, and would retain a more lasting passion for 
letters, than he who was early burdened with the dis- 
agreeable institution of effect and cause. 

In history, such stories alone should be laid before 
them as might catch the imagination ; instead of this, 
they are too frequently obliged to toil through the 
four empires, as they are called, where their memories 
are burdened by a number of disgusting names, tha*^ 
destroy all their future relish for our best historians, 
who may be termed the truest teachers of wisdom. 

Every species of flattery should be carefully avoided ; 
a boy who happens to say a sprightly thing is gene- 
rally applauded so much, that he sometimes continues 
a coxcomb all his life after. He is reputed a wit at 
fourteen, and becomes a blockhead at twenty. Wurses, 
footmen, and such, should therefore be driven away 
as much as possible. I was even going to add, that 
the mother herself should stifle her pleasure or her 
vanity, when little master happens to say a good or a 
smart thing. Those modest, lubberly boys, who seem 
to want spirit, generally go through their business 
with more ease to themselves, and more satisfaction to 
their instructors. 

There has, of late, a gentleman appeared, who 
thinks the study of rhetoric essential to a perfect 
education. That bold male eloquence, which often, 
without pleasing, convinces, is generally destroyed by 
such institutions. Convincing eloquence is infinitely 
more serviceable to its possessor, than the most florid 
harangue, or the most pathetic tones, that can be 



ESSAYS. 287 

imagined ; and the man who is thoroughly convinced 
himself, who understands his subject, and the lan- 
guage he speaks in, will be more apt to silence oppo- 
sition, than he who studies the force of his periods, 
and fills our ears with sounds, while our minds are 
destitute of conviction. 

It was reckoned the fault of the orators at the de- 
cline of the Roman empire, when they had been long 
instructed by rhetoricians, that their periods were so 
harmonious, as that they could be sung as well as 
spoken. What a ridiculous figure must one of these 
gentlemen cut, thus measuring syllables, and weighing 
words, when he should plead the cause of his clientl 
Two architects were once candidates for the building 
a certain temple at Athens ; the first harangued the 
crowd very learnedly upon the different orders of ar- 
chitecture, and shewed them in what manner the 
temple should be built; the other, who got up after 
hmi, only observed, that what his brother had spoken 
he could do ; and thus he at once gained his cause. 

-I'o teach men to be orators, is little less than to 
teach them to be poets ; and for my part, I should 
have too great a regard for my child, to wish him a 
manor only in a bookseller's shop. 

Another passion which the present age is apt to run 
into, is to make children learn all things; the lan- 
guages, the sciences, music, the exercises, and paint- 
ing. Thus the child soon becomes a talker in all, but 
a master in none. He thus acquires a superficial 
fondness for every thing, and only shews his itrnorance 
when he attempts to exhibit his skill. ° 

As 1 deliver my thoughts without method, or con- 
nexion, so the reader must not be surprised to find 
me once more addressing schoolmasters on the present 
method of teaching the learned languages, which if 
commonly by literal translations. 1 would ask such, 
if they were to travel a journey, whether those parts of 
the road in which they found the greatest difficulties, 
would not be the most strongly remembered? Eoys 
who, if I may continue the allusion, gallop through 



288 ESSAYS. 

one of the ancients with the assistance of a translation, 
can have but a very slight acquaintance either with 
the author or his language. It is by the exercise of 
the mind alone that a language is learned ; but a literal 
translation on the opposite page, leaves no exercise 
for the memory at all. The boy will not be at the 
fatigue of remembering, when his doubts are at once 
satisfied by a glance of the eye ; whereas, were every 
word to be sought from a dictionary, the learner 
would attempt to remember them, to save himself the 
trouble of looking out for them for the future. 

To continue in the same pedantic strain, of all the 
various grammars now taught in the schools about town, 
1 would recommend only the old common one. I have 
forgot whether Lily's, or an emendation of him. The 
others may be improvements ; but such improvements 
seem to me only mere grammatical niceties, no way 
influencing the learner ; but perhaps loading him witii 
subtllties, which, at a proper age, he must be at some 
pains to forget. 

Whatever pains a master may take to make the 
learning of the languages agreeable to his pupil, he 
rnay depend upon it, it will be at first extremely un- 
pleasant. The rudiments of every language, therefore, 
must be given as a task, not as an amusement. Attempt- 
ing to deceive children into instruction of this kind, is 
only deceiving ourselves ; and I know no passion ca- 
pable of conquering a child's natural laziness but fear. 
Solomon has said it before me ; nor is there any more 
certain, though perhaps more disagreeable truth, than 
the proverb in verse, too well known to repeat on the 
present occasion. It is very probable that parents are 
told of some masters who never use the rod, and con- 
sequently are thought the properest instructors for 
their children ; but, though tenderness is a requisite 
quality in an instructor, yet there is too often the truest 
tenderness in well-timed correction. 

Some have justly observed, that all passions should 
be banished on this terrible occasion ; but I know not 
how, there is a frailty attending human nature that 



ESSAYS. 289 

few masters are able to keep their temper whilst they 
correct. I knew a good-natured man, who was sen- 
sible of his own weakness in this respect, and conse- 
quently had recourse to the following expedient to 
prevent his passions from being engaged, yet at the 
same time administer justice with impartiality. When- 
ever any of his pupils committed a fault, he summoned 
a jury of his peers, I mean of the boys of his own or 
the next classes to him : his accusers stood forth ; he 
had liberty of pleading in his own defence, and one or 
two more had the liberty of pleading against him ; 
when found guilty by the pannel, he was consigned to 
the footman, who attended in the house, and had pre- 
vious orders to punish, but with lenity. By this means 
the master took off the odium of punishment fnm 
himself ; and the footman, between whom and the bo_'s 
there could not be even the slightest intimacy, was 
placed in such a light as to be shunned by every boy 
in the school. 



ON THE VERSATILITY OF POPULAR FAVOUR. 

An alehouse-keeper, near Islington, who had long 
lived at the sign of the French King, upon the com- 
mencement of the last war with France, pulled down 
his old sign, and put up that of the Queen of Hun- 
gary. Under the influence of her red face and golden 
sceptre, he continued to sell ale, till she was no longer 
the favourite of his customers ; he changed her there- 
fore, some time ago, for the King of Prussia ; who 
may probably be changed in turn, for the next great 
man that shall be set up for vulgar admiration. 

Our publican, in this, imitates the great exactly; 
who deal out their figures, ane after the other, to the 
gazing crowd. When we have sufficiently wondered 
at one, that is taken in, and another exhibited in its 
room, which seldom holds its station long; for the mob 
are ever pleased with variety. 

I must own, I have such an indifferent opinion of 
O 



290 ESSAYS. 

the vulgar, that I am ever led to suspect that merit 
which raises their shout ; at least, I am certain to find 
those great, and sometimes good men, who find satis- 
faction in such acclamations, made worse by it ; and 
history has too frequently taught me^ that the head 
which has grown this day giddy with the roar of the 
million, has the very next been fixed upon a pole. 

As Alexander VI. was entering a little town in ths 
neighbourhood of Rome, which had been just evacu- 
ated by the enemy, he perceived the townsmen busy 
in the market-place i« pulling down from a gibbet a 
figure which had been designed to represent himself. 
There were also seme knocking down a neighbouring 
statue of one of the Orsini fami'y, with whom he was 
at war, in order to put Alexander's effigy in its place. 
It is possible a man who knew less of the world would 
have condemned the adulation of those barefaced flat- 
terers ; but Alexander seemed pleased at their zeal, 
and turning to Borgia, his son, said with a smile,. ■ 
' Vides, mi fili, quam Jeve discrimen patibulum inter 
et statusm : — You see, my son, the small difference 
between a gibbet and a statue.' If the great could be 
taught any lesson, this might serve to teach them upon 
how weak a foundation their glory stands, which is 
built upon popular applause ; for as such praise what 
seems like merit, they as quickly condemn what has 
only the appearance of guilt. 

Popular glory is a perfect coquet ; her lovers must 
toil, feel every inquietude, indulge every caprice ; 
and, perhaps, at last, be jilted into the bargain. True 
glory, on the other hand, resembles a wonian of sense : 
her admirers must play no tricks ; they feel no great 
anxiety, for they are sure, in the end, of being rewarded 
in proportion to their merit. When Svvifi used lo 
appear in public, he generally had the mob shouting 
in his train. ' Pox take these foolr.,' he would say ; 
' how much joy might all this bawling give my lord 
mayor ! " 

We have seen those virtues which have, while living, 
retired from the public eye, generally transmitted to 



ESSAYS. 291 

posterity as the truest objects of admiration and praise 
Perhaps the character of the lute Duke of filarlbo- 
rough may one day be set up, even above that of his 
more talked-of predecessor ; since an assemblage of all 
the mild and amiable virtues are far superior to those 
vulgarly called the great ones. I must be pardoned 
for this short tribute to the memory of a man, who, 
while living, would as much detest to receive any 
thing that wore the appearance of flattery, as I should 

to offer it. . ... . , 

I know not how to turn so trite a subject out of the 
beaten road of common-pfece, except by illustrating 
it rather by the assistance of my mecoory than judg- 
ment ; and, instead of making reflections, by telling 
a story. 

A Chinese who had long studied the works of Con- 
fucius, who knew the characters of fourteen thousand 
words, and could read a great part of every book that 
came in his way, once took it into his head to travel 
into Europe, and observe the customs of a people 
whom he thought not very much inferior, even to his 
own countrymen, in the arts of refining upon every plea- 
sure. Upon his arrival at Amsterdam, his passion for 
letters naturally led him into a bookseller's shop ; and, 
as he could speak a little Dutch, he civilly asked the 
bookseller for the works of the immortal Xixofou. The 
bookseller assured him he had never heard the book 
mentioned before. * What I have you never heard 
of that immortal poef!' returned the other, much 
surprised ; ' that light of the eyes, that favourite of 
kings, that rose of perfection I I suppose you know 
nothing of the immortal Fipsihihi, second cousin to 
the moonl' ' Nothing at all, indeed, sir,' returned 
the other. ' Alas !' cries our traveller, ' to what 
purpose, then, has one of these fasted to death, and 
the other offered himself up as a sacrifice to the Tartar 
enemy, to gain a renown which has never travelled 
beyond the precincts of Chin^V 

There is scarce a village in Europe, and not one 
university, that is not thus furnished with its little 



t=^ 



292 ESSAYS. 

great men. The head of a petty corporation, who op. 
poses the designs of a prince, who would tyrannically 
force his subjects to save their best clothes for Sundays ; 
the puny pedant who finds one undiscovered property 
in the polj'pe, or describes an unheeded process in 
the skeleton of a mole, and whose mind, like his mi- 
croscope, perceives nature only in detail ; the rhymer 
who makes smooth verses, and paints to our imagina- 
tion, when he should only speak to our hearts ; all 
equally fancy themselves walking forward to immor- 
tality, and desire the crowd behind them to look on. 
The crowd takes them at their word. Patriot, philo- 
sopher, and poet, are shouted in their train. — ' Where 
was there ever so much merit seen 1 No times so im- 
portant as our own ; ages, yet unborn, shall gaze with 
wonder and applause !' To such miisic, the important 
pigmy moves forward, bustling and swelling, and aptly 
compared to a puddle in a storm. 

I have lived to see generals v^fho once had crowds 
hallooing after them wherever they went, who were 
be-praised by newspapers and magazines, those echoes 
of the voice of the vulgar, and yet they have long 
sunk into merited obscuritj', with scarce even an epi- 
taph left to flatter. A few years ago the herring 
fishery employed all Grub-street ; it was the topic in 
every cofFee-house, and the burden of every ballad. 
We were to drag up oceans of gold from the bottom 
of the sea ; we were to supply all Europe with Herrings 
upon our own terms. At present we hear no more 
of all this. We have fished up very little gold, that I 
can learn ; nor do we furnish the world with herrings, 
as was expected. Let us v/ait but a few years longer, 
and we shall find all our expectations a herring- 
fishery. 



ESSAYS. 293 

SPECIMEN OF A MAGAZINE iM MINIATURE. 

Wii essayists, who aie allowed but one subject at a 
time, are by no means so fortunate as the writers of 
magazines, who write upon several. If a magaziner 
be (lull upon the Spanish war, he soon has us up ao;iin 
with the ghost in Cock-lane; if the reader begins to 
doze upon that, he is quickly rou-ed by an eastern 
tale; tales prepare us for poetry, and poetry for the 
meteorological history of the weather. It is the life 
and soul of a magazine, never to be long dull upon 
one subject ; and the reader, like the sailor's horse, has 
at least the comfortable refreshment of having the spur 
often changed. 

As I see no reason why they should carry off all 
the rewards of genius, I have some thoughts, for the 
future, of making this essay a magazine rn miniature : 
I shall hop from subject to subject, and if properly 
encouraged, I intend in time to adorn my feuiile-volant 
with pictures. But to begin, in the usual form, with 

A modest Address to the Public. 

The public has been so often imposed upon by the 
unperforming promises of others, that it is with tlie 
utmost modesty we assure them of our inviolable de- 
sign of giving the very best collection that ever asto- 
nished society. The public we honour and regaid, 
and therefore to instruct and entertain them is our 
highest ambition, with labours calculated as well to 
the head as the heart. If four extraordinary pa^es of 
letter-press be any recommendation of our wit, we 
may at least boast the honour of vindicating our own 
abilities. To say more in favour of the Infernal Maga- 
zine, would be unworthy the public ; to say less, 
would be injurious to ourselves. As we have no in- 
terested motives for this undertaking, being a society 
of gentlemen of distinction, we disdain to eat or write 
like hirelings; we are all gentlemen, resolved to sell 
our sixpenny magazine merely for our own amusement. 

Be careful to ask for the Infernal Magazine. 



294 ESSAYS. 

DEDICATION. 

VO THAT MOST INGENIOUS OP ALI, PATRONS 
THE TKIPOLINE AMBASSADOH ; \ 

Slay it please your Excellency, 
As your taste in the fine arts is universally allowed 
and admired, permit the authors of the Infernal Ma- 
gazine to lay the following sheets hun)b!y at your 
excellency's toe ; and should our labours ever have 
the happiness of one day adorning the courts of Fuz, 
ve doubt not that the influence wherewith we are 
honoured, shall be ever retained with the most warm 
ardour by, 

May it please your Excellency, 

Your most devoted humble servants. 

The Authors of the Infernal Magazine, 

A SPEECH, 

SPOKEN' BY THE INDIGENT rHlLOSOPHEH, TO PERSUAUi 
HIS Cl.UB AT CATEATON NOT TO DECLARE WA3 AGAINST 
SPAIN. 

RIy honest friends and brother coliticians, I per- 
ceive that the intended war with rspajn makes many 
of you uneasy. Yesterday, as we were told, the 
stocks rose, and you v;ere glad ; to-day they fall, and 
you are again miserable. But, my dear friends, what 
is the rising or falling of the stocks to us, who have no 
money"! Let Nathan Ben Funk, the Dutch Jew, be 
giad or sorry for this ; but, my good Mr. Bellows- 
mender, what is all this to you or me ■? You must 
mend broken bellows, and 1 write bad prose, as long 
as we live, whether we like a Spanish war or not. 
J5elieve me, my honest friends, whatever you may talk 
of liberty and your own reason, both that liberty and 
reason are conditionally resigned by every poor man 
in every society ; anil as we vvere born to work, so 
others are born to watch over us while we are working. 



ESSAYS. 2y5 

In the name of common sense then, my good fiiends, 
let the great keep watch over us, and let us mind our 
business, and perhaps we may at last gtt money our- 
selves, and set beg^gars at work in our turn. J liave a 
Latin sentence that is worth its weight in gold, and 
which 1 shall beg leave to translate for your instruc- 
tion. An author, called Lily's Grammar, finely ob- 
serves, that ' ^s in present! perfectum format ;' that 
is, ' Ready money makes a perfect man.' Let us 
then get ready money, and let them that will spend 
theirs by going to war with Spain. 

RULES FOR BEHAVIOUR, 

DRAWN UP BY THE INUIOENT PHILOSOPHIiR. 

If you be a rich man, you may enter the room with 
three loud herns, march deliberately up to the chim- 
ney, and turn your back to the fire. If you be a poor 
man, I would advise you to shrink into the room as 
fast as you can, and place yourself, as usual, upon 
the corner of a chair, in a remote corner. 

When you are desired to sing in company, I would 
advise you to refuse ; for it is a thousand to one but 
that you torment us with affectation or a bad voice. 

If you be young, and live with an old man, I 
would advise you not to like gravy. 1 was disin- 
heiited myself for liking gravy. 

Do not laugh much in public: the spectators t'lat 
are not as merry as you, will hate you, either because 
they envy your happiness, or fancy themselves the 
subject of your mirth. 

RULES FOR RAISING THE DEVIL, 

Translated from the Latin of Danjeiis de Snrlinriis, a writer contem- 
porary witli Calvin, and one of Ihe Reformers of our CluirLh. 

The person who desires to raise the devil, is to sa- 
crifice a dog, a cat, and a hen, all of his own property, 
to Beelzebub. lie is to swear an eternal obedience, 
and then to receive a mark in some unfeen place, 
either under the eye-lid, or in the roof of the mouth, 

<1 



29G ESSAYS. 

inflicted by the devil himself. Upon this he has power 
given him over three spirits ; one for earth, another 
for air, and a third for the sea. Upon certain times 
the devil holds an assembly of magicians, in which 
each is to give an account of what evil he has done, 
and what he wishes to do. At this assembly he ap- 
pears in the shape of an old man, or often like a goat 
with large horns. They, upon this occasion, renew 
their vows of obedience; and then form a grand 
dance in honour of their false deity. The deity in- 
structs them in every method of injuring mankind, i-n 
gathering poisons, and of riding upon occasion through 
the air. He shevi-s them the whole metliod, upon 
examination, of giving evasive answers ; his spirits 
have power to assume the form of angels of light, and 
tiiere is but one method of detecting them, viz. to ask 
them, in proper form, what method is the most certain 
to propagate the faitii over all the world 1 To this 
they are not permitted by the superior Power to make 
a false reply, nor are they willing to give the true 
one ; wherefore they continue silent, and are thus 
detected. 



BEAU TIBBS : A CHARACTKE. 

TnoiTGn naturally pensive, yet I am fond of gay 
company, and take every opportunity of thus dis- 
missing the mind from duty, i^rom this motive 1 am 
often found in the centre of a crowd ; and wherever 
pleasure is to be sold, am always a purchaser. In 
those places, without being remarked by any, I join 
in whatever goes forward, work my passions into a 
similitude of fiivolous earnestness, shout as tliey shout, 
and condemn as they happen t-o disapprove. A mind 
thus F-unk for a while below its natural standard, is 
qualified for stronger flights,- as those first retire who 
would spring forward with greater vigour. 

Attracted by the serenity of the evening, a friend 
and I lately went to gaze upon the company in one 



ESSAYS. 29T 

of the public walks near the city. Here we sauntered 
.ogether for some time, either praising the beauty of 
6uch as were handsome, or the dresses of such a? had 
nothing else to recommend them. We had gone thus 
deliberately forward for some time, when my friend, 
stopping on a sudden, caught me by the elbow, and 
led me out of the public walk. I could perceive by 
the quickness of his pace, and by his frequently look- 
ing behind, that he was attempting to avoid some- 
body who followed : we now turned to the right, then 
to the left : as we went forward, he still went faster, 
but in vain ; the person whom he attempted to escape, 
hunted us through every doubling, and gained upon 
us each moment ; so that at last we fairly stood still, 
resolving to face what we could not avoid. 

Our pursuer soon came up, and joined us with ail 
the familiarity of an old acquaintance. ' My dear 
Charles,' cries he, shaking my friend's hand, ' where 
have you been hiding this half a century 1 Positively 
I had fancied you had gone down to cultivate matri- 
mony and your estate in the country.' During the 
reply, I had an opportunity of surveying the appear- 
ance of our new companion. His hat was pinched 
up with peculiar smartness : his looks were pale, thin, 
and sharp ; round his neck he wore a broad black 
riband, and in his bosom a buckle studded with glass; 
his coat was trimmed with tarnished twist ; he wore 
by his side a sword with a black hilt : and his stockings 
of silk, though newly washed, were grown yellow by 
long service. I was so much engaged with the pe- 
culiarity of his dress, that I attended only to the latter 
part of my friend's reply ; in which he complimented 
Mr. Tibbs on the taste of his clothes and the bloom 
in his countenance. • Psha, psha, Charles,' cries the 
figure, ' no more of that if you love me : you know 
I hate flattery, on my soul I do ; and yet to be sure 
an intimacy with the great will improve one's ap- 
pearance, and a course of venison will fatten ; and 
yet, faith, I despise the great as much as you do : but 
02 



298 ESSAYS. 

there are a great many damned honest fellows among 
them, and we must not quarrel with one half because 
the other wants breeding. If they were all such as 
my Lord Mudler, one of the most good-natured 
creatures that ever squeezed a lemon, 1 should my- 
self be among the number of their admirers. I was 
yesterday to dine at the Duchess of Piccadilly's. My 
lord was there. Ned, says he to me, Ned, says he, I 
will hold gold to silver I can tell where you were 
poaching last night. Poaching ! my lord, says I ; 
faith you have missed already ; for I stayed at home 
and let the girls poach for me. That is my way : I 
take a fine woman as some animals do their prey; 
stand still, and swoop, they fall into my mouth.' 

' Ah, Tibbs, thou art a happy fellow,' cried my 
companion, with looks of infinite pity. ' I hope your 
fortune is as much improved as your understanding in 
such company.' 'Improved!' replied the other, 
' you shall know — but let it go no farther, — a great 
secret — five hundred a year to begin with. — My lord's 
word of honour for it — His lordship took me in his own 
chariot yesterday, and we had a tete-a-tete dinner 
in the country, where we talked of nothing else.' ' I 
fancy you forgot, sir,' cried I, ' you told us but this 
moment of your dining yesterday in town V ' Did I 
say so ?' replied he coolly. ' To be sure, if I said so, 
it was so. — Dined in town : egad, now I remember, I 
did dine in town ; but I dined in the country tod ; for 
you nust know, my boys, I eat two dinners. By the 
by, I am grown as nice as the devil in my eating. 
I will tell you a pleasant afl'air about that : we were a 
select party of us to dine at Lady Grogram's, an af- 
fected piece, but let it go no farther ; a secret : Well, 
says I, I will hold a thousand guineas, and say Done 
first, that — But, dear Charles, you are an honest crea- 
ture ; lend me half-a-crown for a minute or two, or 
so, just till — But hark'ee, ask me for it the next time 
we meet, or it may be twenty to one but I forget to 
pay you.* 



ESSAYS. 299 

When he left us, our conversatioa naturally turned 
upon so extraordinary a character, ' His very dress, 
cries my friend, ' is not less extraordinary tlian his con- 
duct. If you meet him this day, you find him in rags : 
if the next, in embroidery. With those persons of dis- 
tinction, of whom he talks so familiarly, he has scarce 
a coffee-house acquaintance. However, both for the 
interest of society, and, perhaps, for his own. Heaven 
has made him poor; and while all the world per- 
ceives his wants, he fancies them concealed from 
every eye. An agreeable companion, because he un- 
derstands flattery ; and all must be pleased with the 
first part of his conversation, though all are sure of its 
ending with a demand on their purse. While his 
youth countenances the levity of lys conduct, he may 
thus earn a precarious subsistence ; but, when age 
comes on, the gravity of which is incompatible with 
buffoonery, then will he find himself forsaken by all ; 
condemned in the decline of life to hang upon some 
rich family whom he once despised, there to undergo 
all the ingenuity of studied contempt ; to be employed 
only as a spy upon the servants, or a bugbear to 
fright children into duty.' 



BEAU TIBBS— CONTINUED. 
There are some acquaintances whom it is no easy 
matter to shake off. My little beau yesterday over- 
took me again in one of the public walks, and slapping 
me on the shoulder, saluted me with an air of the most 
perfect familiarity. His dress was the same as usual, 
except that he had more powder in his hair, wore a 
dirtier shirt, and had on a pair of Temple spectacles, 
and his hat under his arm. 

As I knew him to be a harmless amusing little 
thing, 1 could not return his smiles with any degree 
of severity ; so we walked forward on terms of the 
utmost intimacy, and in a few minutes discussed all 
the usual topics preliminary to particular conversation. 



300 ESSAYS. 

The oddities thu^ marked his character, however, 
soon began to appear ; he bowed to several well- 
dressed persons, who, by their manner of returning the 
compliment, appeared perfect strangers. At intervals 
he drew out a pocket-book, seeming to take memoran- 
dums before all the company with much importance 
and assiduity. In this manner he led me through the 
length of the whole Mall, fretting at his absurditiess, 
and fancying myself laughed at as well as him by 
every spectator. 

When we were got to the end of our procession, 
' Blast me,' cries he, with an air of vivacity, ' I 
never saw the Park so thin in my life tefore ; there's 
no company at all to-day. Not a single face to be 
seen.' ' No coKipany,' interrupted I, peevishly, 
' no company where there is such a crowd! Why, 
man, there is too much. What are the thousands that 
have been laughing at us but company 1' ' Lord, 
my dear,' returned he with the utmost good-humour, 
' you seem immensely chagrined : but, blast me, when 
the world laughs at me, 1 laugh at the world, and so 
we are even. My Lord Trip, Bill Squash the Creo- 
lian, and 1, sometimes make a party at being ridicu- 
lous ; and so we say and do a thousand things for the 
joke's sake. But I see you are grave ; and if you are 
for a fine grave sentimental companion, you shall dine 
with my wife to-day ; 1 must insist on't ; 1'41 intro- 
duce you to Mrs. Tibbs, a lady of as elegant qualifi- 
cations as any in nature ; she was bred, but that's 
between ourselves, under tlie inspection of the countess 
of Shoreditch. A charming body of voice ! But no 
more of that, she shall give us a song. You shall see 
my little girl too, Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Tibbs, 
a sweet pretty creature : I design her for my Lord 
Drumstick's eldest son ; but that's in friendship, let it 
go no farther ; she's but six years old, and yet siie 
walks a minuet, and plays on the guitar, immensely 
already. I intend she shall be as perfect as possililf 
in every accomplishment. In the first place, I'll make 
her a scholar ; I'll teach her Greek myself, and I 



ESSAYS. SCI 

intend to learn that lang-uage purposely to instruct her, 
but let that be a secret.' 

Thus saying, without waiting for a reply, he took 
me by the arm and hauled tne along. We passed 
through many dark alleys, and winding ways; for, 
from some motives to me unknown, he seemed to have 
a particular aversion to every frequented street ; at 
last, however, we got to the door of a dismal-looking 
house in the outlets of the town, where he informed 
me he chose to reside for the benefit of the air. 

We entered the lower door, which seemed ever to 
lie most hospitably open ; and I began to ascend an 
old and creaking staircase ; when, as he mounted to 
shew me the way, he demanded, whether I delighted 
in prospects; to which answering in the affirmative, 
' Then,' said he, ' 1 shall shew you one of the most 
charming out of my windows ; we shall see the ships 
sailing, and the whole country for twenty miles round, 
tiptop, quite high. iWy Lord Swamp would give ten 
thousand guineas for such a one ; but as I sometimes 
pleasantly tell him, I always love to keep my pros- 
pects at home, that my friends may come to see me 
the oftener.' 

By this time we were arrived as high as the stairs 
would permit us to ascend, till we came to what he 
was facetiously pleased to call the first floor down the 
chimney ; and, knocking at the door, a voice with a 
Scotch accent from within demanded, ' Wha's there?' 
My conductor answered that it was him. But this not 
satisfying the querist; the voice again repeated the 
demand ; to which he answered louder than before ; 
and now the door was opened by an old maid-servant 
with cautious reluctance. 

When we were got in, he welcomed me to his house 
with great ceremony, and turning to the old woman, 
asked where her lady was. ' Good troth,' replied 
she in the northern dialect, ' she's washing your twa 
shirts at the next door, because they have taken an 
oath against lending out the tub any longer.' ' My 
two shirts !' cries he, in a tone that faltered with 



302 ESSAYS, 
confusion, ' what does the idiot mean V — • 1 ken 
what 1 mean well enough,' replied the other ; ' she's 
wasliing your twa shirts at the next door, because 
' ' Fire and fury, no more of thy stupid explana- 
tions,' cried he. ' Go and inform her we have got 
company. — Were that Scotch hag,' continued he, 
turning to me, ' to be for ever in my family, she 
would never learn politeness, nor forget that absurd 
poisonous accent of her's, or testify the smallest speci- 
men of breeding or high life ; and yet it is very sur- 
prising too, as I had her from a parliament man, a 
friend of mine, from the Highlands, one of the politest 
men in the world ; but that's a secret.' 

We waited some time for Mrs. Tibbs' arrival, dur- 
ing which interval I had a full opportunity of survey- 
ing the chamber and all its furniture ; which con- 
sisted of four chairs with old wrought bottoms, that he 
assured me were his wife's embroidery ; a square 
table that had been once japanned ; a cradle in one 
corner, a lumber-cabinet in the other ; a broken 
shepherdess, and a mandarine without a head, were 
stuck over the chimney; and round the walls several 
paltry unframed pictures, which he observed were all 
of his own drawing. ' What do you think, sir, of that 
head in the corner, done in the manner of Grisoni 1 
There's the true keeping in it ; it's my own face ; and, 
though there happens to be no likeness, a countess 
ofTered me a hundred for its fellow : I refused her, for 
hang it, that would be mechanical, you know.' 

The wife at last made her appearance ; at once a 
slattern and coquet; much emaciated, but still carry- 
ing the remains of beauty. She made twenty apolo- 
gies for being seen in such an odious dishabille, but 
hoped to be excused, as she had stayed out all night 
at Vauxhafl Gardens with the countess, who was ex- 
cessively fond of the horns. ' And, indeed, my dear,' 
added she, turning to her husband, ' his lordship 
drank your health in a bumper.' ' Poor Jack !' cries 
he, 'a dear good-natured creature, I know he loves 
me ; but I hope, my dear, you have given orders for 



ESSAYS. 303 

dinner ; you need make no great preparations neither, 
there are but three of us ; something elegant, and 

little will do ; a turbot, an ortolan, or a ' ' Or 

what do you think, my dear,' interrupts the wife, 
' of a nice pretty bit of ox-cheek, piping hot, and 
dressed with a little of my own sauce ?' ' The very 
thing,' replies he ; ' it will eat best with some smart 
bottled beer; but be sure to let's have the sauce his 
Grace was so fond of. I hate your immense loads of 
meat; that is country all over ; extreme disgusting to 
those who are in the least acquainted with high life.' 

By this time my curiosity began to abate, and my 
appetite to increase ; the company of fools may at first 
make us smile, but at last never fails of rendering us 
melancholy. 1 therefore pretended to recollect a prior 
engagemeiTt, and after having shewn my respects to 
the house, by giving the old servant a piece of money 
at the door, I took my leave ; Mr. Tibbs assuring me, 
that dinner, if I stayed, would be ready at least in 
less than two hours. 



ON THE IRRESOLUTION OF YOUTH. 

As it has been observed that few are better qualified 
to give others advice, than those who have taken the 
least of it themselves ; so in this respect I find myself 
perfectly authorized to offer mine ; and must take 
leave to throw together a few observations upon that 
part of a young man's conduct, on his entering into 
life, as it is called. 

The most usual way among young men who have 
no resolution of their own, is first to ask one friend's 
advice, and follow it for some time ; then to ask ad- 
vice of another, and turn to that ; so of a third, still 
unsteady, always changing. However, every change 
of this nature is for the worse ; people may tell you of 
your being unfit for some peculiar occupations in life ; 
but heed them not ; whatever employment you fol- 
low with perseverance and assiduity, will be found fit 



304 ESSAYS. 

for you; it will be your support in youth, and com- 
fort in age. In learning the useful part of every pro- 
fession, very moderate abilities will suffice : great 
abilities are generally obnoxious to the possessors. 
Life has been compared to a race ; but the allusion 
still improves by observing, that the most swift are 
ever the most apt to stray from the course. 

To know one profession only, is enough for one 
man to know ; and this, whatever the professors may 
tell you to the contrary, is soon learned. Be con- 
tented, therefore, with one good employment ; for if 
you understand two at a time, people will give you 
business in neither. 

A conjurer and a tailor once happened to converse 
together. ' Alas !' cries the tailor, ' whgt an un- 
happy poor creature am I ! If people take it into their 
heads to live without clothes, I am undone ; I have 
no other trade to have recourse to.' — ' Indeed, friend, 
I pity you sincerely,' replies the conjurer; ' but, thank 
He'aven, things are not quite so bad with me : for, if 
one trick should fail, I have a hundred tricks more 
for them yet. However, if at any dme you are re- 
duced to beggary, apply to me, and I will relieve you.' 
A famine overspread the land ; the tailor made a shift 
to live, because his customers could not be without 
clotlies ; but the poor conjurer, with all his hundred 
tricks, could find none that had money to throw-away : 
it was in vain that he promised to eat fire, or to vomit 
pins ; no single creature would relieve him, till he was 
at last obliged to beg from the very tailor whose calling 
he had formerly despised. 

There are no obstructions more fatal to fortune than 
pride and resentment. If you must resent injuries at 
all, at least suppress your indignation till you become 
rich, and then shew away. The resentment of a poor 
man is like the efforts of a harmless insect to st'ng ; it 
may get him crushed, but cannot defend him. Who 
values that anger which is consumed only in empty 
menaces'! 

Once upon a time a goose fed its young by a pond 



ESSAYS. 305 

side ; and a goosoj in such circumstances, is always 
extremely proud, and excessively punctilious. If any 
other animal, without the least design to offend, hap- 
pened to pass that way, the goose was immediate'y at 
it. The pond, she said, was hers, and she would 
maintain her right in it, and support her honour, while 
she had a bill to hiss, or a wing to flutter. In this 
manner she drove away ducks, pigs, and chickens • 
nay, even the insidious cat was seen to scamper. A 
lounging mastiff, however, happened to pass by, and 
t'hought it no harm if he should lap a little of the 
water, as he was thirsty. The guardian goose flew 
at him like a fury, pecked at him with her beak, and 
slapped him with her feathers. The dog grew angry, 
and had twenty times a mind to give her a sly snap; 
but suppressing his indignation, because his master 
was nigh, ' A pox take thee,' cries he, ' for a fool ; sure 
those who have neither strength nor weapons to fight, 
at least should be civil.' So saying, he went forward 
to the pond, quenched his thirst, in spite of the goose, 
and followed his master. 

Another obstruction to the fortune of youth is, that, 
while they are willing to take offence from none, they 
are also equally desirous of giving nobody offence. 
From hence they endeavour to please ail, comply 
with every request, and attempt to suit themselves to 
every company; have no will of their own, but, like 
wax, catch every contiguous impression. By thus at- 
tempting- to give universal satisfaction, they at last 
find themselves miserably disappointed : to bring the 
generality of admirers on our side, it is sufficient to 
attempt pleasing a very few. 

A painter of eminence was once resolved to finish a 
piece which should please the whole world. When, 
therefore, he had drawn a picture, in which his utmost 
skill was exhauste'd, it was exposed in the public 
market-place, with directions at the bottom for every 
spectator to mark with a brush, that lay by, every 
limb and feature which seemed erroneous. Ihe spec- 
tators came, and in the general applauded ; but each. 



306 ESSAYS. 

willing- to shew his talent at criticism, stigmatized 
whatever he thought proper. At evening, when the 
painter came, he was mortified to find the picture one 
universal blot, not a single stroke that had not the 
marks of disapprobation. Not satisfied with this trial, 
the next day he was resolved to try them in a different 
manner : and exposing his picture as before, desired 
that every spectator would mark those beauties he ap- 
proved or admired. The people complied, and the 
artist returning, found his picture covered with the 
marks of beauty ; every stroke that had been yester- 
day condemned, now received the character of appro- 
bation. ' Well,' cries the painter, ' I now find that 
the best way to please all the world, is to attempt 
pleasing one half of it.' 



ON MAD DOGS. 

Indulgent nature seems to have exempted this island 
from many of those epidemic evils which are so fatal 
in other parts of the world. A want of rain for a few 
days beyond the expected season, in some parts of the 
globe, spreads famine, desolation, and terror, over the 
whole country ; but, in this fortunate island of Britain, 
the inhabitant couits health in every breeze, and the 
husbandman ever sows in joyful expectation. 

But though the nation be exempt from real evils, it 
IS not more happy on this account than others. The 
people are afflicted, it is true, with neither famine nor 
pestilence ; but then there is a disorder peculiar to the 
country, which every season makes strange ravages 
among them ; it spreads with pestilential rapidity, and 
infects almost every rank of people ; what is still more 
strange, the natives have no name for this peculiar 
malady, though well known to foreign physicians by 
the appellation of Epidemic Terror. 

A season is never known to pass in which the people 
are not visited by this cruel calamity in one shape or 
another, seemingly different, though ever the same ; 
one year it issues from a baker's shop in the shape of 



ESSAYS. 307 

a sixpenny loaf, the next it takes the appearance of a 
comet with a fiery tail, the third it threatens like a flat- 
bottomed boat, and the fourth it carries consternatioa 
in the bite of a mad dog. The people, when once in- 
fected, lose their relish for happiness, saunter about 
with looks of despondence, ask after the calamities of 
the day, and receive no comfort but in heightening 
each other's distress. It is insignificant how remote 
or near, how weak or powerful, the object of terror 
may be, when once they resolve^to fright and be 
frighted ; the merest trifles sow consternation and dis- 
may ; each proportions his fears, not to the object, 
but to the dread he discovers in the countenance of 
others ; for, when once the fermentation is begun, it 
goes on of itself, though the original cause be discon- 
tinued which at first set it in motion. 

A dread of mad dogs is the epidemic terror which 
now prevails, and the whole nation is at present 
actually groaning under the malignity of its influence. 
The people sally from their houses with that circum- 
spection which is prudent in such as expect a mad 
dog at every turning. The physician publishes his 
prescription, the beadle prepares his halter, and a few 
of unusual bravery arm themselves with boots and 
buff gloves, in order to face the enemy, if he should 
offer to attack them. In short, the whole people stand 
bravely upon their defence, and seem, by their pre- 
sent spirit, to shev/ a resolution of being tamely bit by 
mad dogs no longer. 

Their manner of knowing whether a dog bemad or no, 
somewhat resembles the ancient gothic custom of try- 
mg witches. The old woman suspected was tied hand 
and foot, and thrown into the water. If she swam, then 
she was instantly carried off to be burnt for a witch ; 
if she sunk, then indeed she was acquitted of the charge, 
but drowned in the experiment. In the same manner 
a crowd gather round a dog suspected of madness, and 
they begin by teasing the devoted animal on every 
Bide. If he attempts to stand upon the defensive, and 
bite, then he is unanimously found guilty, for ' a mad 



SOS KSSAVS. 

dog always snaps at every thing.' If, on the contrary, 
he strives to escape by running away, then he can ex- 
pect no con". passion, for ' mad dogs always run straight 
forward before them.' 

It is pleasant enough for a neutral being like me, 
who have no share in those ideal calamities, to mark 
the stages of tliis national disease. The terror at first 
feebly enters vvith a disregarded story of a little dog 
that had gone through a neighbouring village, which 
was thought to be mad by several who had seen him. 
The next account comes, that a mastiff ran through a 
certain iown, and had bit five geese, which immedi- 
ately ran mad, foamed at the bill, and died in great 
agonies soon after. Then comes an affecting story of 
a little boy bit in the leg, and gone down to be dipped 
in the salt water. When the people have sufficiently 
shuddered at that, they are next congealed 'vith a 
frightful account of a man who was said lately to have 
died from a bite he had received some years before. 
This relation only prepares the way for another, still 
more hideous ; as how the master of a family, with 
seven small children, were all bit by a mad lap-dog; 
and how the poor father first perceived the infection, 
by calling for a draught of water, where he saw the 
lap-dog swimming in the cup. 

When epidemic terror is thus once excited, every 
morning comes loaded with some new disaster i as in 
stories of ghosts each loves to hear the account, though 
it only serves to make him uneasy ; so here each listens 
with eagerness, and adds to the tidings v;ith new cir- 
cumstances of peculiar horror. A lady, for instance, 
in the country, of very weak nerves, has been frighted 
by the barking of a dog ; and this, alas ! too frequently 
happens. The story soon is improved, and spreads, 
that a mad dog had frighted a lady of distinction. 
These circumstances begin to grow terrible before they 
have reached the neighbouring village; and there the 
report is, that a lady of quality was bit by a mad 
mastiff. This account every moment gathers new 
strength, and grows more dismal as it approaches the 



ESSAYS. 309 

capital ; and, by the time it has arrived in town, the 
lady is described, with wild eyes, foaming mouth, run- 
ning mad upon all four, barking like a dog, biting her 
servants, and at last smothered between two beds by 
the advice of her doctors ; while the mad mastiff is, in 
the mean time, ranging the whole country over, slaver- 
ing at the mouth, and seeking whom he may devour. 

My landlady, a good-natured woman, but a little 
credulous, waked me some mornings ago before the 
usual hour, with horror and astonishment in her looks. 
She desired me, if I had any regard for my safety, to 
keep within ; for a few days ago, so dismal an accident 
had happened, as to put all the world upon their guard. 
A mad dog down in the country, she assured me, had 
bit a farmer, who soon becoming mad, ran into his 
own yard and bit a fine brindled cow ; the cow quickly 
became as mad as the man, began to foam at the 
mouth, and raising herself up, walked about on her 
hmd legs, sometimes barking like a dog, and sometime* 
atteraptmg to talk like the farmer. Upon examinino- 
the grounds of this story, I found my landlady had il 
from one neighbour, who had it from another neic^h- 
bour, who heard it from very good authority. ' ° 

Were most stories of this nature well examined it 
would be found that numbers of such as have been said 
to suffer are in no way injured : and that of those who 
have been actually bitten, not one in a hundred was 
bit by a mad dog. Such accounts, in general, there- 
fore only serve to make the people miserable by false 
terrors; and sometimes fright the patient into actual 
frenzy by creating those very symptoms they pretended 
to deplore. 

But even allowing three or four to die in a teason 
ot this terrible death (and four is probably too lar^^e a 
concession), yet still it is not considered how manv^are 
preserved in their health and in their pro )ertv bv tl.is 
devoted animal's services. The midnisht robber is 
u^^i.^^ a distance ; the insidious thief is often detected ; 
the healthful chase repairs many a worn constitution • 
and the poor man fia^s in his dog a willing assistant' 



310 ESSAYS. 

eager to lessen his toil, and content with the smallest 
retribution. 

' A dog,' says one of the English poets, ' is an honest 
creature, and I am a friend to dogs.' Of all the beasts 
that graze the lawn, or hunt the forest, a dog is the 
only animal, that leaving his fellows, attempts to cul- 
tivate the friendship of man : to man he looks, in all 
his necessities, with speaking eye for assistance ; exerts 
for him all the little service in his power with cheerful- 
ness and pleasure ; for him bears famine and fatigue 
with patience and resignation ; no injuries can abate 
his fidelity, n > distress induce him to forsake his bene- 
factor; studious to please, and fearing to offend, he is 
still an humble, steadfast dependant ; and in him alone 
fawning is not flattery. How unkind then to torture 
this faithful creature, who has left the forest to claim 
the protection of man! How ungrateful a return to 
the trusty animal for all its services. 



ON THE INCREASED LOVE OF LIFE WITH AGE. 

Age, that lessens the enjoyment of life, increases our 
desire of living. Those dangers, which, in the vigour 
of youth, we had learned to despise, assume new ter- 
rors as we grow old. Our caution increasing as our 
years increase, fear becomes at last the pcevailing 
passion of the mind, and the small remauider of life is 
taken up in useless efforts to keep off our end, or pro- 
vide for a. continued existence. 

Strange contradiction in our nature, and to which 
even the wise are liable! If I should judge of that 
part of life which lies before me by that which I have 
already seen, the prospect is hideous. Experience tells 
me, that my past enjoyments have brought no real 
felicity ; and sensation assures me, that those I have 
felt are stronger than those which are yet to come. 
Yet experience and sensation in vain persuade ; hope, 
more powerful than eijiier, dresses out the distant 
prospect in fancied beauty ; some happiness, in long 



ESSAYS. Sll 

perspective, still beckons me to pursue ; and, like a 
losing gamester, every new disappointment increases 
my ardour to continue the game. 

Whence tiiea is this increased love of life, which 
grows upon us with our years! Whence tomes it, 
that we thus make greater efforts to preserve our ex- 
istence, at a period when it becomes scarce worth the 
keeping ! Is it that nature, attentive to the preserva- 
tion of mankind, increases our wishes to live, while she 
lessens our enjoyments ; and, as she robs the senses of 
every pleasure, equips imagination in the spoil ! Life 
would be insupportable to an old man, who, loaded 
with infirmities, feared death no more than when m 
the vigour of manhood : tiie numberless calamities of 
decaying nature, and the consciousness of surviving 
every pleasure, would at once induce him, with his 
own hand, to terminate the scene of misery : but hap- 
pily the contempt of death forsakes him at a time when 
it could only be prejudicial ; and life acquires an ima- 
ginary value in proportion as its real value is no more. 
Our attachment to every object around us increases, 
in general, from the length of our acquaintance with 
it. ' I would not choose,' says a French philosopher, 
' to see an old post pulled up with which I had beea 
long acquainted.' A mind long habituated to a certain 
set of objects, insensibly becomes fond of seeing them ; 
visits them from habit, and parts from them with re- 
luctance : from hence proceeds the avarice of the old 
in every kind of possession ; they love the world and 
all that it produces; they love life and all its advan- 
tages ; not because it gives them pleasure, but becu-^ee 
they have known it long. 

Chinvang the Chaste, ascending the throne of 
China, commanded that all who were unjustly de- 
tained in prison, during tlie preceding reigns, should 
be set free. Among the number v/ho came to thank 
their deliverer on this occasion, there appeared a ma- 
jestic old man, who, falling at the emperor's feet, 
addressed him as follows : ' Great father of China 
behold a wretch, now eighty-five years old, who was 



312 ESSAYS. 

shut up in a dungeon at the age of twenty-two. 1 
was imprisoned, though a stranger to crime, or without 
being even confronted by my accusers. I have now 
lived in solitude and darkness for ,more than sixty 
years, and am grown familiar with distress. As yet 
dazzled with the splendour of that sun to which you 
have restored me, I have been wandering the streets 
to find out some friend that v^ould assist, or relieve, or 
remember me ; but my friends, my family, and rela- 
tions, are all dead, and I am forgotten. ■ Permit me 
then, O Chinvang, to wear out the wretched remains 
of life in my former prison ; the walls of my dungeoa 
are to me more pleasing than the most splendid palace: 
I have not long to live, and shall be unhappy except 
I spend the rest of my days wiiere my youth was 
passed, in that prison from whence you were pleased 
to release me.' 

The old man's passion for confinement is similar to 
that we all have for life. We are habituated to the 
prison ; we look round with discontent, are displeased 
with the abode, and yet the length of our captivity 
only increases our fondness for the cell. The trees 
we have planted, the houses we have built, or the 
posterity we have begotten, all serve to bind us closer 
to the earth, and imbitter our parting. Life sues the 
young like a new acquaintance ; the companion, as 
yet unexhausted, is at once instructive and amusing ; 
its company pleases ; yet, for all this, it is but little 
regarded. To us, who are declined in years, life 
appears like an old friend ; its jests have been antici- 
pated in former conversation ; it has no new story to 
make us smile, no new improvement with which to 
surprise ; yet still we love it ; destitute of every enjoy- 
ment, still we love it ; husband the wasting treasure 
with increasing frugality, and feel all the poignancy of 
anguish in the fatal separation. 

Sir Philip Mordaunt was young, beautiful, sincere, 
brave — an Englishman. He had a complete fortune 
of his own, and the love of the king his master, which 
was equivalent to riches. Life opened all her treasure* 



ESSAYS. 313 

before him, and promised a long succession of future 
happiness. He came, tasted of the entertainment, but 
was disgusted even at the beginning. He professed 
an aversion to living ; was tired of walking round the 
same circle; had tried every enjoyment, and found 
them all grow weaker at every repetition. ' If life be, 
in youth, so displeasing,' cried he to himself, ' what 
will it appeal when age comes on 1 If it be at present 
indifferent, sure it will then be execrable.' This 
thought imbittered every reflection ; till, at last, with 
all the serenity of perverted reason, he ended the de- 
bate with a pistol ! Had this self-deluded man been 
apprized, that existence grows more desirable to us 
the longer we exist, he would then have faced old age 
without" shrinking ; he would have boldly dared to 
live ; and serve that society, by his future assiduity, 
which he basely injured by his desertion. 



ON THE LADIES' PASSION FOR LEVELLING 
ALL DISTINCTION OF DRESS. 

Foreigners observe that there are no ladies ^n the 
world more beautiful, or more ill-dressed, than those 
of England, Our country-women have been com- 
pared to those pictures, where the face is the work of 
a Raphael, but the draperies thrown out by some 
empty pretender, destitute of taste, and entirely unac- 
quainted with design. 

If I were a poet, I might observe, on this occasion, 
that so much beauty, set off with all the advantages 
of diess, would be too powerful an antagonist for the 
opposite sex ; and therefore it was wisely ordered that 
our ladies should want taste, lest their admirers should 
entirely want rear-on. 

But to confess a truth, I do not find they have 
greater aversion to fine clothes than the women of any 
other country whatsoever. I cannot fancy tliat a shop- 
keeper's wife in Cbeapside has a greater tenderness 
for the fortune of hei husband, than a citizen's wife in 
P 



31-4 ESSAYS. 

Paris ; or that miss in a boarding-school is more an 
economist in dress than mademoiselle in a nunnery. 

Although Paris may be accounted the soil in which 
almost every fashion takes its rise, its influence is never 
so general there as with us. They stud-y there the 
happy method of unitinoj grace and fashion, and never 
excuse a woman for being awkv.'ardly dressed, by say- 
ing her clothes are in the mode. A French womau is 
a perfect architect in dress ; she never, with Gothic 
ignorance, mixes the orders ; she never tricks out a 
squabby Doric shape with Corinthian finery ; or, to 
speak without metaphor, she conforms to general 
fashion only when it happens not to be repugnant to 
private beauty. 

The English ladies, on the contrary, seem to have 
no other standard of grace but the run of the town. 
If fashion gives tl'ie word, every distinction of beauty, 
complexion, or stature, ceases. Sweeping trains, Prus- 
sian bonnets, and trollopees, as like each other as if 
cut from the same piece, level all to one standard. 
The Mall, the gardens, and playhouses, are filled with 
ladies m uniform ; and their whole appearance shews 
as littl* variety of taste as if their clothes were bespoke 
by the colonel of a marching regiment, or fancied by 
the artist who dresses the three battalions of guards. 

B^it not only the ladies of every shape and com- 
plexion, but of every age too, are possessed of this 
unaccountable passion for levelling all distinction in 
dress. The lady of no quality travels first behind the 
lady of some quality ; and a woman of sixty is as 
gaudy as her grand-daughter. A friend of mine, a 
good-natured old man, amused me the other day with 
an account of his journey to the Mall. It seems, in 
his walk thither, he, for some time, followed a lady, 
who, as he thought, by her dress, was a girl of fifteen. 
It was airy, elegant, and youthful. My old friend 
had called up all his poetry on this occasion, and 
fancied twenty Cupids prepared for execution in every 
folding of her white negligee. He had prepared his 
imac^ination for an angel's face ; but what was his 



ESSAYS. 315 

mortification to find that the imaginary goddess was 
no other than his cousin Hannah, some years older 
than himself. 

But to give it in his own words : ' After the trans- 
ports of our first salute,' said he, ' were over, I could 
not avoid running my eye over her whole appearance. 
Her gown was of cambric, cut short before, in order 
to discover a high-heeled shoe, which was buckled 
almost at the toe. Her cap consisted of a ffew bits of 
cambric, and flowers of painted paper stuck on one 
side of her head. Her bosom, that had felt no hand 
but the hand of time these twenty years, rose, suing 
to be pressed. I could, indeed, have wished her more 
than a handkerchief of Paris net to shade her beauties ; 
for, as Tasso says of the rose-bud, ' Quanto si nostra 
men, tanto e piu bella.' A female breast is generally 
thought most beautiful as it is more sparingly dis- 
covered. 

' As my cousin had not put on all this finery for 
nothing, she was at that time sallying out to the Park, 
where I had overtaken her. Perceiving, however, that 
I had on my best wig, she offered, if I would squire 
her there, to send home the footman. Though 1 trem- 
bled for our reception in public, yet I could not, with 
any civility, refuse ; so, to be as gallant as possible, I 
took her hand in my arm, and thus we marched on 
together. 

' When we made our entry at the Park, two anti- 
quated figures, so polite and so tender, soon attracted 
the eyes of the company. As we made our way among 
crowds who were out to shew their finery as well as 
we, wherever we came, I perceived we brought good- 
humour with us. The polite could not forbear smiling, 
and the vulgar burst out into a horse-laugh, at our 
grotesque figures. Cousin Hannah, who was perfectly 
conscious of the rectitude of her own appearance, attri- 
buted all this mirth to the oddity of mine ; while I as 
cordially placed the whole to her account. Thus, 
from being two of the best-natured creatures alive, 
before we got half way up the Mall, we both began 



315 ESSAYS. 

to grow peevisl", and, like two mice on a stnng, en- 
deavoured to revenge the impertinence of others upoQ 
ourselves. " I am amazed, cousin Jeffery,' says miss, 
" that 1 can never get you to dress like a Christian. 1 
knev/ we should have the eyes of the Paik upon us, 
with your great wig so frizzled, and yet so beggarly, 
a'ad your monstrous muff, i hate those odious mufi's " 
i could have patiently borne a criticism on all the 
rest of my equipage ; but as I had aUvays a peculiar 
veneration for my muff, I could not forbear being 
piq-ued a little ; and, throwing my eyes with a spiteful 
air on her bosom, " I could heartily wish, madam," 
replied I, " that, for your sake, my muff was cut into 
a tippet." 

' As my cousin, by this time, was grown heartily 
ashamed of her gentleman-usher, and as 1 was never 
very fond of any kind of exhibition myself, it was 
mutually agreed to retire for a while to one of the seats, 
and, from that retreat, remark on others as freely as 
they had remarked on us. 

' When seated, we continued silent for some time, 
employed in very different speculations. I regarded 
the whole company, now passing in review before me, 
as drawn out merely for my amusement. For my 
entertainment the beauty had, all that morning, been 
impro.ving her char-ms : the beau had put on lace, and 
the young doctor a big wig, merely to please me. But 
quite different were the sentiments of cousin Hannah : 
she regarded every well-dressed woman as a victorious 
rival ; hated every face that seemed dressed in good- 
humour, or wore the appearance of greater happiness 
than her own. I perceived her uneasiness, and at- 
tempted to lessen it, by observing that there was no 
company in the Park to-day. To this she readily 
assented ; " And yet," says she, " it is full enough of 
scrubs of one kind or another." My smiling at this 
observation gave her spirits to pursue the bent of her 
inclination, and now she began to exhibit her skill ia 
secret history, as she found me disposed to listen. 
" Observe,"says she to me, " that old woman in tawdry 



JJ 



JiSsA'lS. 317 

silk, and dressed out beyond the fashioa. That is Miss 
Biddy Evergreen. Mis.-; Biddy, it seems, has money ; 
and as she considers that money was never so scarce 
as it is now, she seems resolved to keep what she has 
to herself. She is ugly enough, you see; yet, I assure 
you, she has refused several oflfers, to my knowledge, 
within this twelvemonth. Let me see, three gentle- 
men from Ireland, who study the law, two waiting 
captains, her doctor, and a Scotch preacher who had 
liked to have carried her off. All her time is passed 
between sickness and finery. Thus she spends the 
whole week in a close chamber, with no other com- 
pany but her monkey, her apothecary, and cat ; and 
comes dressed out to the Park every Sunday, to shew 
her airs, to get new lovers, to catch a new cold, and 
to make new work for the doctor. 

' " There goes Mrs. Roundabout, I mean the fat 
lady in the lustring troUopee. Between you and I, 
she is but a cutler's wife. See how she's dressed, as 
fine as hands and pins can make her, while her two 
marriageable daughters, like hunters in stuff gowns, 
are now taking sixpenny-worth of tea at the White- 
conduit house. Odious puss, how she waddles along, 
with her train two yards behind her ! She puts me in 
mind of my lord Bantam's Indian sheep, v;hich are 
obiised to have their monstrous tails trundled along in 
a go-cart. For all her airs, it goes to her husband's 
heart to see four yards of good lustring wearing against 
the ground, like one of his knives on a grindstone. To 
speak my mind, cousin JefFery, I never liked those tails ; 
for suppose a young fellow should be rude, and the 
lady should offer to step back in the fright, instead of 
retiring, she treads upon her train, and falls fairly on 
ber back ; and then you know, cousin, — her clothes 
may be spoiled. 

' " Ah ! Miss Mazzard ! I knew we should not miss 
her in the Park ; she in the monstrous Prussian bonnet. 
Miss, though so very fine, was bred a milliner ; and 
might have had some custom if she had minded her 
business ; but the girl was fond of finery, and, instead 



318 ESSAYS. 

of dressing her customers, laid out all her goods in 
adorning herself. Every new gown she put on im- 
paired her credit ; she still, however, went on, improv- 
ing her appearance and lessening her little fortune, and 
is now, you see, become a belle and a bankrupt." 

' My cousin was proceeding in her remarks, which 
, were interrupted by the approach of the very lady she 
had been so freely describing. Miss had perceived her 
at a distance, and approached o salute her. I found, 
by the warmth of the two ladies' protestations, that 
they had been long intimate, esteemed friends and 
acquaintance. Both were so pleased at this happy 
rencounter, that they were resolved not to part for the 
day. So we all crossed the Park together, and I savir 
them into a hackney-coach at St. James's.' 



ASEM; AN EASTERN TALE: 

OR, THE WISDOM OF PROVIDENCE IN THE MORAL 
GOVERNMENT OP THE WORLD. 

Wheue Tauris lifts his head above the storm, and 
presents nothing to the sight of the distant traveller, 
but a prospect of nodding rocks, falling torrents, and 
all the variety of tremendous nature ; on the bleak 
bosom of this frightful mountain, secluded from so- 
ciety, and detesting the ways of men, lived Asem the 
man-hater. 

Asem had spent his youth with men ; had shared in 
their amusements ; and had been taught to love his 
fellow-creatures with the most ardent affection ; but, 
from the tenderness of his disposition, he exhausted all 
his fortune in relieving the wants of the distressed. 
The petitioner never sued in vain ; the weary traveller 
never passed his door ; he only desisted from doing 
good when he had no longer the power of relieving. 

From a fortune thus spent in benevolence he ex- 
pected a grateful return from those he had formerly 
relieved ; and made his application with confidence of 



ESSAYS. 319 

redress : the ungrateful world soon grew weary of his 
importunity ; for pity is but a short-lived passion. He 
soon, therefore, began to view mankind in a very dif- 
ferent light from that in which he had before beheld 
them : he perceived a thousand vices he had never 
before suspected to exist : wherever he turned, ingra- 
titude, dissimulation, and treachery, contributed to 
increase his detestation of them. Resolved, therefore, 
to continue no longer in a world which he hated, and 
which repaid his detestation with contempt, he retired 
to this region of sterility, in order to brood over his 
resentment in solitude, and converse \yith the only 
honest heart he knew ; namely, his own. 

A cave was his only shelter from the inclemency 
of the weather ; fruits, gathered with difficulty from 
fhe mountain's side, his only food ; and hifS drink was 
fetched with danger and toil from the headlong tor- 
rent. In this manner he lived, sequestered from so- 
ciety, passing the hours in meditation, and sometimes 
exulting that he was able to live independenfly of his 
fellow-creatures. 

At the foot of the mountain an extensive lake dis- 
played its glassy bosom, reflecting on its broad surface 
the impending horrors of the mountain. To this ca- 
pacious mirror he would sometimes descend, and, 
reclining on its steep banks, cast an eager look on the 
smooth expanse that lay before him. ' How beautiful,' 
he often cried, ' is nature ! how lovely, even in her 
wildest scenes ! How finely contrasted is the level 
plain that lies beneath me, with yon awful pile that 
hides its tremendous head in clouds ! But the beauty 
of these scenes is no way comparable with their 
utility ; from hence a hundred rivers are supplied, 
which distribute health and verdure to the various 
countries through which they flow. Every part of 
the universe is beautiful, just, and wise, but man : 
vile man is a solecism in nature, the only monster in 
the creation. Tempests and whirlwinds have their 
use ; but vicious ungrateful man is a blot in the fair 
page of universal beauty. Why was I born of that 



320 ESSAYS. 

detested species, whose vices are almost a reproacli to 
the wisdora of the Divine Creator 1 Were men en- 
tirely free from vice, all would be uniformity, harmony, 
and order. A world of moral rectitude should be the 
result of a perfectly moral agent. Why, why, then, 
O Alia ! must I be thus confined in darkness, doubt, 
and despair ?' 

Just as he uttered the word despair, he was going to 
plunge into the lake beneath him, at once to satisfy 
his doubts, and put a period to his anxiety ; when he 
perceived a most majestic being walking oti the sur- 
face of the water, and approaching the bank on which 
he stood. So unexpected an object at once checked 
his purpose ; he stopped, contemplated, and fancied 
he s-aw something awful and divine in his aspect. 

' Son of Adam,' cried the genius, ' stop thy rash 
purpose; the Father of the Faithful has seen thy jus- 
tice, thy integritj', thy miseries ; and hath sent me to 
afford and administer relief. Give me thine hand, and 
follow, without trembling, wkerever I shall lead ; in 
me behold the genius of conviction, kept by the great 
prophet, to turn from their errors those who go astray, 
not from curiosity, but a rectitude of intention. Fol- 
low me and be wise.' 

Asem immediately descended upon the lake, and 
his guide conducted him along the surface of the 
water ; till, coming near the centre of the lake, they 
both began to sink ; the waters closed over their 
heads ; they descended several hundred fathoms, till 
Asem, just ready to give up his life as inevitably lost, 
found himself with his celestial guide in another world, 
at the bottom of the waters, where human foot had 
never trod before. His astonishment was beyond 
description, when he saw a sun like that he had left, a 
serene sky over his head, and blooming verdure under 
his feet. 

' I plainly perceive your amazement,' said the 
genius ; ' but suspend it for a while. This world was 
formed by Alia, at the request, and under the inspec- 
tion, of our great prophet ; who once entertainea thts 



ESSAYS. 321 

same doubts which filled your mind when 1 found you, 
and from the consequence of which you were so lately 
rescued. The rational inhabitants of this world are 
formed agreeable to your own ideas ; they are abso- 
lutely without vice. In other respects it resembles 
your earth ; but differs from it in being wholly iti- 
habited by men whatever do wrong. If you find this 
world more agreeable than that you so lately left, you 
have free permission to spend the remainder of your 
days in it ; but permit me, for some time, to attend 
you, that I may silence your doubts, and make you 
better acquainted with your company and your new 
habitation.' 

« A world without vice ! Rational beings without 
immorality!' cried Asem, in a rapture; ' I thank 
thee, O Alia, who hast at length heard my petitions : 
this, this indeed will produce happiness, ecstasy, and 
ease. O for an immortality, to spend- it among men 
who are incapable of ingratitude, injustice, fraud, vio- 
lence, and a thousand other crimes that render society 
miserable !' 

' Cease thine acclamations,' replied the genius, 
' Look around thee ; reflect on every object and 
action before us, and communicate to me the result 
of thine observations. Lead wherever you think 
proper, I shall be your attendant and instructor.' 
Asem and his companion travelled on in silence for 
some time, the former being entirely lost in astonish- 
ment ; but, at last, recovering his former serenity, he 
could not help observing that the face of the country 
bore a near resemblance to that he had left, except 
that this subterranean world still seemed to retain its 
primeval wildness. 

' Here,' cried Asem, ' I perceive animals of prey, 
and others that seem only designed for their subsis- 
tence ; it is the very same in the world over our heads. 
But had 1 been permitted to instruct our prophet, I 
would have removed this defect, and formed no vora- 
cious or destructive animals, which only prey on the 
Other parts of the creation.' — ' Your tenderness for in- 
P2 



S22 ESSAYS. 

fei'ior animals, is, I find, remarkable,' said the genius 
. smiling. ' But, with regard to meaner creatures, this 
world exactly resembles the other ; and, indeed, foi 
obvious reasons : for the earth can support a more 
considerable number of animals, by their thus becom- 
ing- food for each other, than if they had lived entirely 
on her vegetable productions. ^So that animals of 
different natures thus formed, instead of lessening 
their multitudes, subsist in the greatest number pos- 
sible. But let us hasten on to the inhabited country 
before us, and see what that offers for instruction.' 

They soon gained the utmost verge of the forest, 
and entered tlie country inhabited by men without 
vice ; and Asem anticipated ia idea the rational de- 
light he hoped to experience in such an innocent 
society. But they had scarce left the confines of the 
wood, when they beheld one of the inhabitants flying 
with hasty steps, and terror in his countenance, from 
an army of squirrels that closely pursued him. ' Hea- 
vens !' cried Asem, ' why does he fly ? What can 
he fear from animals so contemptible V He had scarce 
spoken, when he perceived two dogs pursuing another 
of the human species, who, with equal terror and 
haste, attempted to avoid them. ' This,' cried Asem 
to his guide, ' is truly surprising ; nor can I conceive 
the reason for so strange an action.' — ' Every species 
of animals,' replied the genius, ' has of lafg grown 
very powerful in this country ; for the inhabitants, at 
first, thinking it unjust to use either fraud or force in 
destroying them, they have insensibly increased, and 
now frequently ravage their harmless frontiers.' — 
' But they should have been desttoyed,' cried Asem ; 
' you see the consequence of such neglect.' — ' Where 
is then that tenderness you so lately expressed for 
subordinate animals!' replied the genius, smiling: 
' j'ou seem to have forgot that branch of justice.' — ' I 
must acknowledge my mistake,' returned Asem ; ' I 
am now convinced that we roust be guilty of tyranny 
and injustice to the brute creation, if we would enjoy 
the world ourselves. But let us no longer observe the 



ESSAYS. 323 

duty of man to these irrational creatures, but survey 
their connexions with one another.' 

As they walked farther up the country, the more 
he was surprised to see no vestiges of handsome houses 
no cities, nor any mark of elegant design. His coni 
ductor, perceiving his surprise, observed that the in- 
habitants of this new world were perfectly content 
with their ancient simplicity; each had a house, 
which, though homely, was sufficient to lodcre his 
Jittle family ; they were too good to build houses 
which could only increase their own pride, and the 
envy of the spectator; what they built was for con- 
venience, and not for show. ' At least, then,' said- 
Asem, < they have neither architects, painters, nor 
statuaries, in their society ; but these are idle arts 
and may .)e spared. However, before I spend much 
more time here, you shall have my thanks for intro- 
ducmg me into the society of some of their wisest 
men : there is scarce any pleasure to me equal to a 
rehned conversation ; there is nothing of which I am 
so much enamoured as wisdom.'—' Wisdom !' replied 
his instructor : ' how ridiculous ! We have no wisdom 
here, for we have no occasion for it ; true wisdom is 
only a knowledge of our own duty, and the duty of 
others to us ; but of what use is such wisdom here? 
Ji.ach mtuitively performs what is right in himself, and 
expects the same from others. If by wisdom you 
should mean vam curiosity, and empty speculation, as 
such pleasures iiave their origin in vanity, luxury or 
avarice, we are too good to pursue them.'—' All this 
maybe right,' says Asem ; ' but, methinks I observe a 
solitary disposition prevail among the people ; each 
tamily keeps separately within their own precincts 
without society, or without intercourse.'^' That in- 
deed, ,s true,' replied the other; ' here is no esta- 
blished society, nor should there be any: all societies 
are made either through fear or friendship : the people 
we are among are too good to fear each other ; and 
there are no motives to private friendship, where all 
are equally meritorious.'—' Well, then,' said the 



324 ESSAYS. 

sceptic, ' as 1 am to spend my time here, if I am to 
have neither the polite arts, nor wisdom, nor friend- 
ship, in such a world, I should be glad, at least, of an 
easy companion, who may tell me his thoughts, and 
to whom 1 may communicate mine.' — ' And to what 
purpose- should either do this?' says the genius: 
' flattery or curiosity are vicious motives, and never 
allowed of here ; and wisdom is out of the question.' 

■ Still, however,' said Asem, ' the inhabitants must 
be happy ; each is contented with his own possessions, 
nor avariciously endeavours to heap up more than is 
necessary for his own subsistence ; each has therefore 
leisure for pitying those that stand in need of his com- 
passion.' He had scarce spoken when his ears were 
assaulted with the lamentations of a wretch who sat 
by the way-side, and, in the most deplorable distress, 
seemed gently to murmur at his own misery. Asem 
immediately ran to his relief, and found him in the last 
stage of a consumption. ' Strange,' cried the son of 
Adam, ' that men who are free from vice should thus 
suffer so much misery without relief !' — ' Be not sur- 
prised,' said the wretch, who was dying ; ' would it 
not be the utmost injustice for beings, who have only 
just sufficient to support themselves, and are content 
with a bare subsistence, to take it from their own 
mouths to put it into mine ? They never are possessed 
of a single meal more than is necessary ; and what is 
barely necessary cannot be dispensed with.' — ' They 
should have been supplied with more than is neces- 
sary,' cried Asem ; ' and yet I contradict my own 
opinion but a moment before : all is doubt, perplexity, 
and confusion. Even the want of ingratitude is no 
virtue here, since they never receive a favou-r. They 
have, however, another excellence yet behind ; the 
love of their country is still, I hope, one of their dar- 
ling virtues.' — ' Peace, Asem,' replied the guardian, 
with a countenance not less severe than beautiful, 
' nor forfeit all thy pretensions to wisdom ; the same 
selfish motives by which we prefer our own interest 
to that of others, induce us to regard our country pre- 



ESSAYS. 325 

ferable to that of another. Nothing less than univer- 
sal benevolence is free from vice, and that you see is 
practised here.' — ' Strange !' cries the disappointed 
pilgrim, in an agony of distress ; ' what sort of a 
world am I now introduced to 1 There is scarce a 
single virtue, but that of temperance, which they prac- 
tise ; and in that they are no way superior to the brute 
creation. There is scarce an amusement which they 
enjoy ; fortitude, liberality, friendship, wisdom, con- 
versation, and love of country, are all virtues entirely 
unknown here ; thus it seems, that to be unacquainted 
with vice is not to know virtue. Take me, O my 
genius, back to that very world which I have de- 
spised ; a world which has Alia for its contriver, is 
much more wisely formed than that which has been 
projected by Mahomet. Ingratitude, contempt, and 
hatred, I can now suffer, for perhaps I have deserved 
them. When I arraigned the wisdom of Providence, 
I only shewed my own ignorance ; henceforth let me 
keep from vice myself, and pity it in others.' 

He had scarce ended, when the genius, assuming 
an air of terrible complacency, called all his thunders 
around him, and vanished in a whirlwind. Asem, as- 
tonished at the terror of the scene, looked for his 
imaginary world ; when, casting his eyes around, he 
perceived himself in the very situation, and in the very 
place, where he first began to repine and despair; his 
right foot had been just advanced to take the fatal 
plunge, nor had it been yet withdrawn ; so instantly 
did Providence strike the series of truths just imprinted 
on his soul. He now departed from the water-side 
in tranquillity, and, leaving his horrid mansion, tra- 
velled to Segestan, his native eity ; where he diligently 
applied himself to commerce, and put in practice that 
wisdom he had learned in solitude. The frugality of 
a few years soon produced opulence ; the number of 
his domestics increased ; his friends came to him from 
every part of the city, nor did he receive them with 
disdain ; and a youth of misery was concluded with 
an old age of elegance, affluence, aid ease. 



ESSAYS. 

ON THE ENGLISH CLERGY AND 
POPULAR PREACHERS. 

It is Allowed on all hands, that our English divines 
receive a more liberal education, and improve that 
education by frequent study, more than any others of 
this reverend profession in Europe. In general, also, 
it may be observed, that a greater degree of gentility 
is affixed to the character of a student in England 
than elsewhere ; by which means our clergy have an 
opportunity of seeing better company while young, 
and of sooner vvearing off those prejudices which they 
are apt to imbibe even in the best-regulated universi- 
ties, and which may be justly termed the vulgar er- 
rors of the wise. 

Yet, with all these advantages, it is very obvious, 
that the clergy are no where so little thought of, by 
the populace, as here ; and, though our divines are 
foremost with respect to abilities, yet they are found 
last in the effects of their ministry; the vulgar, in ge- 
neral, appearing no way impressed vv'ith a sense of 
religious duty. I am not for whining at the depravity 
of the times, or for endeavouring to paint a prospect 
more gloomy than in nature ; but certain it is, no 
person who has travelled will contradict me, when I 
aver, that the lower orders of mankind, in other coun- 
tries, testify, on every occasion, the profound6st awe 
of religion; while in England they are scarcely awak- 
ened into a sense of its duties, even in circumstances 
of the greatest distress. 

This dissolute and fearless conduct foreigners are 
apt to attribute to climate, and constitulion : may not 
the vulgar being pretty much neglected in our exhor- 
tations from the pulpit, be a conspiring cause ? Our 
divines seldom stoop to their mean capacities; and 
they who want instruction most find least in our reli- 
gious assemblies. 

Whatever may become of the higher orders of man- 
kind, who are generally pos-sessed of collateral moiives 
to virtue, the vulgar should be particularly regarded. 



ESSAYS. 323 

whose behaviour in civil life is totally hinged upon 
their hopes and fears. Those who constitiUe the basis 
of the great fa-bric of society, should be particularly 
regarded ; for^in policy, as architecture, ruin is most 
fatal vvhen it begins from the bottom. 

Men of real sense and understanding prefer a pru- 
dent mediocrity to a precarious popularity: and, fear- 
ing to outdo their duty, leave it half done. Their 
discourses from the pulpit are generally dry, methodi- 
cal, and unaiFecting : delivered with the most insipid 
calmness; insomuch, that should the peaceful preacher 
lift his head over the cushion, which alone he seems to 
address, he might discover his audience, instead of being 
awakened to remorse, actually sleeping over his me- 
thodical and laboured composition. 

This method of preaching is, however, by some called 
an address to reason, and not to the passions ; this is 
styled the making of converts from conviction ; but 
such are indifferently acquainted with human nature, 
who are not sensible that men seldom reason about 
their debaucheries till they are committed. Reason 
is but a weak antagonist when headlong passion dic- 
tates ; in all such cases we should arm one passion 
against another : it is with the human mind as in na- 
ture ; from the mixture of two opposites, the result is 
most frequently neutral tranquillity. Those who at- 
tempt to reason us out of our follies, begin at the 
wrong end, since the attempt naturally presupposes 
us capable of reason ; but to be made capable of this, 
is one great point of the cure. 

There are but few talents requisite to become a 
popular preacher; for the people are easily pleased, 
if they perceive any endeavours in the orator to please 
them ; the meanest qualifications will work this effect, 
if the preacher sincerely sets about it. Perhaps little, 
indeed very little more is required, than sincerity and 
assurance ; and a becoming sincerity is always cer- 
tain of producing a becoming assurance. ' Si vis me 
flere, dolendum est primum tibi ipsi,' is so tiite a quo- 
tation, that it almost demands an apology to repeat it; 

f 



328 ESSAYS, 

yet though all allow the justice of the remark, how 
few do we find put it in practice ! Our orators, with 
the most faulty bashfulness, seetn impressed rather 
with an awe of their audience, than with a just respect 
for t'be truths they are about to deliver : they, of all 
professions, seem the most bashful, who have the 
greatest right to glory in their commission. 

The French preachers generally assume all that 
dignity which becomes men who are ambassadors from 
Christ; the English divines, like erroneous envoys, 
seem more solicitous not to offend the court to which 
they are sent, than to drive home the interests of their 
employer. The bishop of Massillon, in the first ser- 
mon he ever preached, found the whole audience, 
upon his getting into the pulpit, in a disposition no 
way favourable to his intentions ; their nods, whispers, 
or drowsy behaviour, shewed him that there was no 
great profit to be expected from his sowing in a soil so 
improper ; however, he soon changed the disposition 
of his audience by his manner of beginning. ' If,' 
says he, ' a cause, the most important that could be 
conceived, were to be tried at the bar before qualified 
judges; if this cause interested ourselves in particular; 
if the eyes of the whole kingdom were fixed upon the 
event ; if the most eminent counsel were employed on 
both sides; and if we had heard from our infancy of 
this yet-undetermined trial; would you not all -sit with 
due attention, and warm expectation, to the pleadings 
on each side 1 Would not all your hopes and fears 
be hinged upon the final decision t and yet, let me 
tell you, you have this moment a cause of much greater 
importance before you; a cause where not one nation, 
but all the world, are spectators ; tried not before a 
fallible tribunal, but the awful throne of Heaven; 
where not your temporal and transitory interests are 
the subject of debate, but your eternal happiness or 
misery; where the cause is still undetermined, but, 
perhaps, the very moment I am speaking may fix the 
irrevocable decree that shall last for ever : and yet, 
aotwilhstanding all this, you can hardly sit with pa- 



ESSAYS. 329 

tience to near the tidings of your own salvation ; 1 
pJead the cause of Heaven, and yet I am scarcely 
attended to,' &c. 

The style, the abruptness of a beginning- like this, 
in the closet would appear absurd ; but in the pulpit 
it is attended with the most lasting impressions : that 
style which, in the closet, might justly be called flimsy, 
seenrs the true mode of eloquence here. I never read 
a fine composition under the title of a sermon, that I 
do not think the author has miscalled his piece ; for 
the talents to be used in writing well entirely differ 
from those of speaking well. The qualifications for 
speaking, as has been already observed, are easily 
acquired ; they are accomplishments which may be 
taken up by every candidate who will be at the pains 
of stooping. Impressed with a sense of the truths he 
is a"bou-t to deliver, a preaclier disregards the applause 
or t-he contempt of his audience, and he insensibly 
assumes a just and manly sincerity. With this talent 
alone we see what crowds are drawn around enthu- 
siasts, even destitute of common sense; wliat numbers 
converted to Christianity. Folly may sometimes set 
an example for wisdom to practise ; and our regular 
divines may borrow instruction from even Methodists, 
who go their circuits, and preach prizes among the 
populace. Even Whitfield may be placed as a model 
to some of our young divines ; let them join to their 
own good sense, his earnest man-ner of delivery. 

It will be perhaps objected, that by confining the 
excellences of a preacher to proper assurance, earnest- 
ness, and openness of styls, I make the qualifications 
too trifling for estimation ; fliere will be something 
called oratory brought up oh this occa-sion ; action, 
attitude, grace, elocution, may be repeated as abso- 
lutely necessary to complete the character: but let 
us not be deceived ; common sense is seldom sv/ayed 
by fine tones, musical periods, just attitudes, or the 
display of a white handkerchief; eratorial behaviour, 
except in very able hands indeed, generally ikiks into 
awkward and paltry affectation. 



330 ESSAYS. 

It must be observed, however, that these rules are 
calculated only for him who would instruct the vul- 
gar, who stand in most need of instruction ; to address 
philosophers, and to obtain the character of a polite 
preacher among the polite — a much more useless, 
though more sought-for character — requires a differ- 
ent method ot proceeding. All I shall observe oa 
this head is, to entreat the polemic divine, in his con- 
troversy with the deist, to act rather offensively than 
to defend; to push home the grounds of his belief, 
and the impracticability of theirs, rather than to spend 
time in solving the objections of every opponent. ' It 
is ten to one,' says a late writer on the art of war, 
'but that the assailant who attacks the enemy in his 
trenches is always victorious.' 

Yet upon the whole, our clergy might employ 
themselves more to the benefit of society, by declining 
all controversy, than by exhibiting even the profound- 
est skill in polemic disputes : their contests with each 
other often turn on speculative trifles ; and their dis- 
putes with the deist are almost at an end, since they 
can have no more than victory ; and that they are 
already possessed of, as their antagonists have been 
driven into a confession of the necessity of revelation, 
or an open avowal of atheism. To continue the dis- 
pute longer would only endanger it ; the sceptic is 
ever expert at puzzling a debate which he finds 'him- 
self unable to continue, ' and, like an Olympic boxer, 
generally fights best when undermost.' 



ON THE 

ADVANTAGES TO BE DERIVED FROM SENDING 
A JUDICIOUS TRAVELLER INTO ASIA. 

I HAVE frequently been amazed at the ignorance of 
almost all the European travellers, who have pene- 
trated any considerable way eastward into Asia. They 
have all been influenced either by motives of com- 
merce or piety, and their accounts are such as might rea- 



ESSAYS. 331 

Bonably be expected from men of a very narrow or very 
prejudiced education — the dictates of superstition, or 
the result of ignorance. Is it not surprising, that, of 
such a variety of adventurers, not one single philoso- 
pher should be found among the number"! For, as to 
the travels of Gemelii, the learned are long agreed 
that the whole is but an imposture. 

There is scarce any country, how rude or unculti- 
vated soever, where the inhabitants are not possessed 
of some peculiar secrets, either in nature or art, which 
might be transplanted with success ; thus, for instance, 
in Siberian Tartary, the natives extract a strong spirit 
from milk, which is a secret probably unknown to the 
chemists in Europe. In the most savage parts of 
India they are possessed of the secret of dying vege- 
table substances scarlet, and likewise that of refining 
lead into a metal, which, for hardness and colour, is 
little inferior to silver ; not one of which secrets but 
would, in Europe, make a man's fortune. The power 
of the Asiatics in producing winds, or bringing down 
rain, the Europeans are apt to treat as fabulous, be- 
cause they have no instances of the like nature among 
themselves; but they would have treated the secrets of 
gunpowder, and the mariner's compass, in the same 
manner, had they been told the Chinese used such 
arts before the invention was common with themselves 
at home. 

Of all the English philosophers, I most reverence 
Bacon, that great and hardy genius i he it is, who, 
undaunted by the seeming difficulties that oppose, 
prompts human curiosity to examine every part of 
nature ; and even exhorts man to try whether he can- 
not subject the tempest, the thunder, and even earth- 
quakes, to human control. Oh ! had a man of his 
daring spirit, of his genius, penetration, and learning, 
travelled to those countries which have been visited 
only by the superstitious and mercenary, what might 
not mankind expect ! How would he enlighten the 
regions to which he travelled ! and what a variety of 



^ 



332 ESSAYS. 

knowledge and useful improvement would he not bring 
back in exchange . 

There is probably no country so barbarous, that 
would not disclose all it knew, if it received equiva- 
lent information ; and I am apt to think, that a person 
who was ready to give more knowledge than he re- 
ceived, would be welcome wherever he came. All 
his care in travelling should only be, to suit his intel- 
lectual banquet to the people with whom he con- 
versed ; he should not attempt to teach the unlettered 
Tartar astronomy, nor yet instruct the polite Chinese 
in the arts of subsistence ; he should endeavour to 
improve the barbarian in the secrets of jiving comfort- 
ably ; and the inhabitant of a more refined country, 
in the speculative pleasures of science. How much 
more nobly would a philosopher, thus employed, spend 
his time, than by sitting at home, earnestly intent 
upon adding one star more to his catalogue, or one 
monster more to his collection ; or still, if possible, 
more trifiingly sedulous, in the incatenation of fleas, 
or the sculpture of cherry-stones. 

I never consider this subject without being sur- 
prised that none of those societies so laudably esta- 
blished in England for the promotion of arts and 
learning, have ever thought of sending one of their 
members into the most eastern parts of Asia, to make 
what discoveries he was able. To be convinced of 
the utility of such an undertaking, let them but read 
the relations of their own travellers. It will there be 
found, that they are as often deceived themselves as 
they attempt to deceive others. The merchants tell 
us, perhaps, the price of different commodities, the 
methods of baling them up, and the properest manner 
for a European to preserve his health in the country. 
The missionary, on the other hand, informs us with 
what pleasure the country to which he was sent em- 
braced Christianity, and the numbers he converted j 
what methods he took to keep Lent in a region where 
there were no fish, or the shifts he made to celebrate 



ESSAYS. 333 

the rites of his relijjion, in places where there was 
neither bread nor wine ; such accounts, with the usual 
appendage of marriages and funerals, inscriptions, 
rivers, and mountains, make up the whole of a Eu- 
ropean traveller's diary: but as to all the secrets of 
which the inhabitants are possessed, those are univer- 
sally attributed to magic ; and when the traveller can 
give no other account of the wonders he sees per- 
formed, he very contentedly ascribes them to the 
devil. 

It was a usual observation of Boyle, the English 
chemist, that, if every artist would but discover what 
new observations occurred to him in the exercise of 
his trade, philosophy would thence gain innumerable 
improvements. It may be observed with still greater 
justice, that, if the useful knowledge of every country, 
howsoever barbarous, was gleaned by a judicious ob- 
server, the advantages would be inestimable. Are 
there not, even m Europe, many useful inventions 
known or practised but in one place? Their instru- 
ment, as an example, for cutting down corn in Ger- 
many, is much more handy and expeditious, in my 
opinion, than the sickle used in England. The cheap 
and expeditious manner of making vinegar, without 
previous fermentation, is known only in a part of 
France. If such discoveries therefore remain still to 
be known at home, what funds of knowledge might 
not be collected in countries yet unexplored, or only 
passed through by ignorant travellers in hasty ca- 
ravans. 

The caution with which foreigners are received in 
Asia, may be alleged as an objection to such a de- 
sign. But how readily have several European mer- 
chants found admission into regions the most sus- 
picious, under the character of sanjapins, or northern 
pilgrims'! To such not even China itself denies access. 

To send out a traveller properly qualified for these 
purposes, might be an object of national concern: it 
would, in some measure, repair the breaches made 
by ambition; and might shew that there were still 



334 ESSAYS, 

some who boasted a greater name than that of pa- 
triots, who professed themselves lovers of men. 

The only difficulty would remain in choosing a proper 
person for so arduous an enterprise. He should be a 
man of a philosophical turn; one apt to deduce conse- 
quences of general utility from particular occurrences ; 
neither swoln with pride, nor hardened by prejudice; 
neither wedded to one particular system, nor instruct- 
ed only in one particular science ; neither wholly 
a botanist, nor quite an antiquarian, his mind should 
be tinctured with miscellaneous knowledge ; and his 
manners humanized by an intercourse with men. 
He should be, in some measure, an enthusiast to 
the design : fond of travelling, from a rapid imagina- 
tion, and an innate love of change; furnished with 
a body capable of sustaining every fatigue, and a 
heart not easily terrified at danger. 



A REVERIE AT THE BOAR'S-HEAD TAVERN, 
IN EASTCHEAP. 

The improvements we make in mental acquirements 
only render us each day more sensible of the defects 
of our constitution : with this in view, therefore, let us 
often recur to the amusements of youth ; endeavour 
to forget age and wisdom, and, as far as innocence 
goes, be as much a boy as the best of them. 

Let idle declaimers mourn over the degeneracy of 
the age, but, in my opinion, every age is the same. 
This I am sure of, that man, in every season, is a 
poor fretful being, with no other means to escape the 
calamities of the times, but by endeavouring to forget 
them ; for, if he attempts to resist, he is certainly un- 
done. ]f I feel poverty and pain, I am not so hardy 
as to quarrel with the executioner, ev&n while under 
correction ; I find myself no way disposed to make 
fine speeches, while I am making wry faces. In a 
word, let me drink when the fit is on, to make me in- 
sensible ; and drink when it is over, for joy that I feel 
pain no longer. 



ESSAYS. 335 

The character of old FalstafF, even with all his 
faults, gives me reore consolation than the most 
studied efforts of wisdom : I here behold an agreeable 
old fellow, forgetting age, and shewing me the way to 
be young at sixty-five. Sure I am well able to be 
as merry, though not so comical, as he. Is it not in 
my power to have, though not so much wit, at least 
as much vivacity ? — Age, care, wisdom, reflection, 
begone ! — I give you to the winds. Let's have t'otiier 
bottle : here's to the memory of Shakspeare, FalstafF, 
and all the merry men of Eastcheap. 

Such were the reflections that naturally arose while 
I sat at the Boar's-head tavern, still kept at Eastcheap. 
Here, by a pleasant fire, in the very room where old 
Sir John Falstaff" cracked his jokes, in the very chair 
which was sometimes honoured by Prince Henry, and 
sometimes polluted by his immoral, merry companions, 
I sat and ruminated on the follies of youth ; wished to 
be young again ; but was resolved to make the best of 
life while it lasted, and now and then compared past 
and present times together. I considered myself as 
the only living representative of the old knight ; and 
transported my imagination back to the times when the 
prince and he gave life to the revel, and made even 
debauchery not disgusting. The room also conspired 
to throw my reflection back into antiquity : the oak 
floor, the Gothic windows, and the ponderous chimney- 
piece, had long withstood the tooth of time : the watch- 
men had gone twelve : my companions had all stolen 
off, and none now remained with me but the landlord. 
From him I could have wished to know the history of 
a tavern that had such a long succession of customers ; 
I could not help thinking that an account of this kind 
would be a pleasing contrast of the manners of dif- 
ferent ages ; but my landlord could give me no infor- 
mation. He continued to doze, and sot, and tell a 
tedious story, as most other landlords usually do ; and, 
though he said nothing, yet was never silent ; one good 
joke followed another good joke, and the best joke of 
all was generally begun towards the end of a bottle. 



336 ESSAYS. 

I found at last, however, his wine and his conversatioa 
operate by degrees : he insensibly began to alter his 
appearance. His cravat seemed quilled into a ruff, 
and his breeches swelled into a f'ardingale. I now 
fancied him changing sexes ; and, as my eyes began to 
close in slumber, I imagined my fat landlord actually 
converted into as fat a landlady. However, sleep 
made but few changes in my situation : the tavern, 
the apartment, and the table, continued as before ; 
nothing suffered mutation but my host, who was fairly 
altered into a gentlewoman, whom I knew to be Dame 
Quickly, mistress of this tavern in the days of Sir 
John ; and the liquor we were drinking, which seemed 
converted into sack and sugar. 

' My dear Mrs. Quickly,' cried I (for I knew her 
perfectly well at first sight), ' I am heartily glad to 
see you. How have you left FalstafF, Pistol, and the 
rest of our friends below stairs'! Brave and hearty, I 
hope 1' — ' In good sooth,' replied slie, ' lie«did deserve 
to live for ever ; but he makeih foul work on't where 
he hath flitted. Queen Proserpine and he have quar- 
relled, for his attempting a rape upon her divinity ; 
and were it not that she still had bowels of compassion, 
it more than seems probable he might have now been 
sprawling in Tartarus.' 

I now found that spirits still preserve the frailties of 
the flesh ; and that, according to the laws of criticism 
and dreaming, ghosts have been known to be guilty of 
even more than Platonic affection : wherefore, as I 
found her too much moved on such a topic to proceed, 
I was resolved to change the subject; and, desiring 
she would pledge me in a bumper, observed with a 
sigh, that our sack was nothing now to what it was in 
former days. ' Ah, Mrs. Quickly, those were merry 
times when you drew sack for Frince Henry : men 
were twice as strong, and twice as wise, and niucli 
braver, and ten thousand times more charitable, tlinn 
now. Those were the times ! The battle of Agincoiirt 
was a victory indeed ! Ever since that, we hive only 
been desenerating ; and 1 have lived to st;^ t!:e das 



KSSAIS. 337 

when drinking is no longer fashionable. When men 
wear clean shirts, and women shew their necks and 
arms, all are degenerated, Mrs. Quickly; and we shall 
probably, m another century, be frilted away into 
beaux or monkeys. Had you been on earth to see 
what I have seen, it would congeal ail the blood in 
your body (your soul, I mean). Why, our very 
nobility now have the intolerable arrogance, in spite 
of what is every day remonstrated from the press ; our 
very nobility, I say, have the assurance to frequent 
assemblies, and presume to be as merry as the vulgar. 
See, my very friends have scarce manhood enough to 
sit till eleven ; and I only am left to make a night on't. 
Pr'ythee do me the favour to console me a little for 
their absence by tiie story of your own adventures, or 
the history of the tavern where we are now sitting. I 
fancy the narrative may have something singular.' 

' Observe tliis apartment,' interrupted my com- 
panion, ' of neat device and excellent workmanship — 
In this room I have lived, child, woman, and ghost, 
more than three hundred years ; I am ordered by 
Pluto to keep an annual register of every transaction 
that passeth here: and I have whilom compiled three 
hundred tomes, which eftsoons may be submitted to 
thy regards.' — ' None of your whiloros nor eftsoons, 
Mrs. Quickly, if you please,' I replied ; ' 1 know you 
can talk every whit as well as I can : for, as you have 
lived here so long, it is but natural to suppose you 
should learn the conversation of the company. Believe 
me, dame, at best, you have neither too much sense, 
nor too much language, to spare ; so give me both as 
well as you can : but first, my service to you ; old 
women should water their clay a little now and then ; 
and now to your story.' 

' The story of my own adventures,' replied the 
vision, ' is but short and unsatisfactory ; for, believe 
me, Mr. Rigmarole, believe me, a woman with a butt 
of sack at her elbow is never long-lived. Sir John's 
death afflicted me to such a degree, that I sincerely 
believe, to drown sorrow, I drank more liquor myself 

Q 



33S ESSAYS. 

than I drew for my customers : my giief was sincere, 
and the sack was excellent. The prior of a neigh- 
bouring convent (for our priors then had as much 
power as a iVWdlesex justice now), he, I say, it was 
who gave me a licence for keeping a disorderly house ; 
upon condition that I should never make hard bargains 
with the clergy : that he should have a bottle of sack 
every morning, and the liberty of confessing which of 
my girls he thought proper in private every night. I 
had continued for several years to pay this tribute ; 
and he, it must be confessed, continued as rigorously 
to exact it. I grew old insensibly ; my customers con- 
tinued, hov/ever, to compliment my looks while I was 
by, but I could hear them say I was wearing when 
my back was turned. The prior, howevei, 5fill was 
constant, and so were half his convent; but one fatal 
morning he missed the usual beverage, for I had 
incautiously drunk over-night the last bottle myself. 
What will you have on't? The very next day Doll 
Tearsheet and I were sent to the house of correction, 
and accused of keeping a low bawdy-house. In short, 
we were so well purified there with stripes, mortifica- 
tion, and penance, that we were afterward utterly 
unfit for worldly conversation : though sack would 
have killed me, had I stuck to it, yet I soon died for 
want of a drop of something comfortable, and fairly 
left my body to the care of the beadle. 

' Such is my own history ; but that of the tavern, 
where I have ever since been stationed, affords greater 
variety. In the history of this, which is one of the 
oldest in London, you may view the different manners, 
pleasures, and follies of men, at different periods.—- 
You will find mankind neither better nor worse now 
than formerly : the vices of an uncivilized people are 
generally more detestable, though not so frequent, as 
those in polite society. It is the same luxury which 
formerly stuffed your alderman with plum-porridge, 
and now crams him with turtle. It is the same low 
ambition that formerly induced a courtier to give up 
his religion to please his king, and now persuades hiia 



ESSAYS. 339 

to give up his conscience to please his minister. It 
IS the same vanity that formerly stained our ladies' 
cheeks and necks with woad, and now paints them 
with carmine. Your ancient Briton formerly pow- 
dered his hair with red earth, like brick-dust, in order 
to appear frightful ; your modern Briton cuts his hair 
on the crown, and plasters it with hogs'-lard and flour; 
and this to make liim look killing. It is the same 
vanity, the same folly, and the same vice, only appear- 
ing different, as viewed through the glass of fashion. 
In a word, all mankind are a ' 

' Sure the woman is dreaming,' interrupted I. — 
' None of your reflections, Mrs. Quickly, if you love 
me; they onlj' give me the spleen. Tell me your 
history at once. I love stories, but hate reasoning.' 

' If you please then, sir,' returned my companion, 
' I'll read you an abstract, which I made, of the three 
hundred volumes 1 mentioned just now : 

' My body was no sooner laid in the dust, than the 
prior and several of his convent came to purify the 
tavern from the pollutions with which they said I had 
filled it. Masses were said in every room, relics were 
exposed upon every piece of furniture, and the whole 
house washed with a deluge of holy water. My habi- 
tation was soon converted into a monastery ; instead 
of customers now applying for sack and sugar, my 
rooms were crowded with images, relics, saints, whores, 
and frrars. Instead of being a scene of occasional 
debauchery, it was now filled with continued lewdness. 
The prior led the fashion, and the whole convent imi- 
tated his pious example. Matrons came hither to 
confess their sins, and to commit new. Virgins came 
hither who seldom went virgins away. Nor was this 
a convent peculiarly wicked ; every convent at that 
period was equally fond of pleasure, and gave a 
boundless loose to appetite. The laws allowed it : 
each priest had a right to a favourite companion, and 
a power of discarding her as often as he pleased. The 
laity grumbled, quarrelled with their wives and dauoh. 
ters, hated their confessors, and maintained them in 



340 ESSAYS. 

opulence and ease. These, these were happy times, 
Mr. Rigmarole : these were times of piety, bravery, 
and simplicity!' — ' Not so very happy, neither, good 
madam; pretty much like the present: those that 
labour, starve ; and those that do nothing, wear fine 
clothes and live in luxury.' 

' In this manner the fathers lived, for some years, 
without molestation ; they transgressed, confessed 
themselves to each other, and were forgiven. One 
evening, however, our prior keeping a lady of distinc- 
tion somewhat too long at confession, her husband 
unexpectedly came upon them, and testified ail the 
indignation which was natural upon such an occasion. 
The prior assured the gentleman that it was the devil 
who had put it into his heart ; and the lady was very 
certain, that she was under the influence of magic, or 
she could never have behaved in so unfaithful a man- 
ner. The husband, however, was not to be put off by 
such evasions, but summoned both before the tribunal 
of justice. His proofs were flagrant, and he expected 
large damages. Such, indeed, he had a right to ex- 
pect, were the tribunals of those days constituted in 
the same manner as they are now. The cause of the 
priest was to be tried before an assembly of priests ; 
and a layman was to expect redress only from their 
impartiality and candour. What plea then do you 
think the prior made to obviate this accusation'? He 
denied the fact, and challenged the plaintiff to try the 
merits of their cause by single combat. It was a little 
hard, you may be sure, upon the poor gentleman, not 
only to be made a cuckold, but to be obliged to fight 
a duel into the bargain ; yet such.was the justice of the 
times. The prior threw down his glove, and the in- 
jured husband was obliged to take it up, in token of his 
accepting the challenge. Upon this, the priest sup- 
plied his champion, for it was not lawful for the clergy 
to fight ; and the defendant and plaintiff, according to 
custom, were put in prison ; both ordered to fast and 
pray, every method being previously used to induce 
both to a confession of the truth. After a month'.s 



ESSAYS. 341 

imprisonment, the hair of each was cut, their bodies 
anointed with oil, the field of battle appointed, and 
guarded by soldiers, while his majesty presided over 
the whole in person. Both the champions were sworn 
not to seek victory either by fraud or magic. They 
prayed and confessed upon their knees ; and, after 
these ceremonies, the rest was left to the courage and 
conduct of the combatants. As the champion whom 
the prior had pitched upon, had fought six or eight 
times upon similar occasions, it was no way extraor- 
dinary to find him victorious in the present combat. 
In short, the husband was discomfited ; he was taken 
from the field of battle, stripped to his shirt, and, after 
one of his legs was cut off, as justice ordained in such 
cases, he was hanged as a terror to future offenders. 
These, these were the times, Mr. Rigmarole ! you see 
bow much more just, and wise, and valiant, our an- 
cestors were than we.' — ' I rather fancy, madam, that 
the times then were pretty much like our own ; where 
a multiplicity of laws give a judge as much power as 
a want of law ; since he is ever sure to find among the 
number some to countenance his partiality.' 

' Our convent, victorious over their enemies, now 
gave a loose to every demonstration of joy. The lady 
became a nun, the prior was made a bishop, and three 
Wickliffites were burned in the illuminations and fire- 
works that were made on the present occasion. Our 
convent now began to enjoy a very high degree of 
reputation. There was not one in London that had 
the character of hating heretics so much as ours. 
Ladies of the first distinction chose from our convent 
their confessors ; in short, it flourished, and might 
have flourished to this hour, but for a fatal accident, 
which terminated in its overthrow. .The lady whom 
the pj-ior had placed in a nunnery, and whom he con- 
tinued to visit for some time with great punctuality, 
began at last to perceive that she was quite forsaken. 
Secluded from conversation, as usual, she now enter- 
tained the visions of a devotee ; found herself strangely 
disturbed ; but hesitated in determining, whether she 



342 ESSAYS. 

was possessed by an angel or a demon. She was not 
long in suspense : for, upon vomiting a large quantity 
of crooked pins, and finding the palms of her hands 
turned outwards, she quickly concluded that she was 
possessed by the devil. She soon lost entirely the use 
of speech ; and when she seemed to speak, every body 
that was present perceived that her voice was not hei 
own, but that of the devil within her. In short, she 
was bewitched ; and all the difficulty lay in determin- 
ing who it could be that bewitched her. The nuns 
and the monks all demanded the magician's name, 
but the devil made no reply ; for he knew they had 
no authority to ask questions. By the rules of witch- 
craft, when an evil spirit has takea possession, he may 
refuse to answer any questions asked him, unless they 
are put by a bishop, and to these he is obliged to re- 
ply. A bishop, therefore, was sent for, and now the 
whole secret came out : the devil reluctantly owned 
that he was a servant of the prior ; that by his com- 
mand he resided in his present habitation ; and that, 
without his command, he was resolved to keep in pos- 
session. The bishop was an able exorcist ; he drove 
the devil out by force of mystical arms ; the prior was 
arraigned for witchcraft ; the witnesses were strong 
and numerous against him, not less than fourteen per- 
sons being by who heard the devil speak Latin. There 
was no resisting such a cloud of witnesses ; the prior 
was condemned ; and he who had assisted at so' many 
burnings, was burned himself in turn. These were 
times, Mr. Rigmarole ; the people of those times were 
not infidels, as now, but sincere believers !' — ' Equally 
faulty with ourselves, they believed what the devil 
was pleased to tell them ; and we seem resolved, at 
last, to believe neither God nor devil.' 

' After such a stain upon the convent, it was not to 
be supposed it could sui>sist any longer ; the fathers 
were ordered to decamp, and the house was once again 
converted into a tavern. The king conferred it on one 
of his cast-off mistresses ; she was constituted landlady 
by royal authority ; and, as the tavern was in the 



ESSAYS. 343 

neighbourhood of the court, and the mistress a very 
pohte woman, it began to have more business thaa 
ever, and sometimes took not less than four shillings 
a-day. 

' But perhaps you are desirous of knowing what 
were the peculiar qualifications of women of fashion 
at that period ; and in a description of the present 
landlady, you will have a tolerable idea of all the rest. 
This lady was the daughter of a nobleman, and re- 
ceived such an education in the country as became 
her quality, beauty, and great expectations. She 
could make shifts and hose for herself and all the ser- 
vants of the family, when she was twelve years old. 
She knew the names of the four-and-twenty letters, so 
that it was impossible to bewitch her ; and this was a 
greater piece of learning than any lady in the whole 
country could pretend to. She was always up early, 
and saw breakfast served in the great hall by six 
o'clock. At this scene of festivity she generally im- 
proved good-humour, by telling her dreams, relating 
stories of spirits, several of which she herself had seen, 
and one of which she was reported to have killed with 
a black-hafted knife. From hence she usually went 
to make pastry in the larder, and here she was fol- 
lowed by her sweet-hearts, who were much helped on 
in conversation by struggling with her for kisses. 
About ten, miss generally went to play at hot-cockles 
and blindman's bufl' in the parlour ; and when the 
young folks (for they seldom played at hot-cockles 
when grown old) were tired of such amusements, the 
gentlemen entertained miss with the history of their 
greyhounds, bear-baitings, and victories at cudgel- 
playing. If the weather was fine, they ran at the 
ring, or shot at butts, while miss held in her hand a 
riband, with which she adorned the conqueror. Her 
mental qualifications were exactly fitted to her ex- 
ternal accomplishments. Before she was fifteen she 
could tell the story of Jack the Giant Killer ; could 
name every mountain that was inhabited by fairies ; 
knew a witch at first sight ; and could repeat four 

e 



344 ESSAYS. 

Latin prayers without a prompter. Her dress was 
perfectly fashionable ; her arms and her hair were 
completely covered ; a monstrous muff was put round 
her neck, so that her head seemed like that of John the 
Baptist placed in a charger. In short, when com- 
pletely equipped, her appearance was so very modest, 
that she discovered little more than her nose. These 
were the times, Mr. Rigmarole, when every lady that 
had a good nose might set up for a beauty ; when 
every woman that could tell stories might be cried up 
for a wit.' — ' I am as much displeased at those dresses 
which conceal too much, as at those which discover 
too much : I am equally an enemy to a female dunce, 
or a female pedant.' 

' You may be sure that miss chose a husband with 
qualifications resembling her own ; she pitched upon a 
courtier equally remarkable for hunting and drinking, 
who had given several proofs of his great virility among 
the daughters of his tenants and domestics. They fell 
in love at first sight (for such was the gallantry of the 
times), were married, came to court, and madam 
appeared with superior qualifications. The king was 
struck with her beauty. All property was at the king's 
command ; the husband was obliged to resign all 
pretensions in his wife to the sovereign whom God 
anointed, to commit adultery where he thought proper. 
The king loved her for some time ; but, at length, re- 
penting of his misdeeds, and instigated by his father 
confessor, from a principle of conscience, removed her 
from his levee to the bar of this tavern, and took a 
new mistress in her stead. Let it not surprise you to 
behold the mistress of a king degraded to so humble 
an office. As the ladies had no mental accomplish- 
ments, a good face was enough to raise them to the 
royal couch ; and she who was this day a royal mis- 
tress, might the next, when her beauty palled upon 
enjoyment, be doomed to infamy and want. 

' Under the care of this lady, the tavern grew into 
great reputation ; the courtiers had not yet learned 
to game, but they paid it off by drinking ; drunken- 






ESSAYS. 345 

ness is ever the vice of a barbarous, and gaming of a 
luxurious age. They had not such frequent enter- 
tainments as the moderns have, but were more expen- 
sive and more luxurious in those they had. All their 
fooleries were more elaborate, and more admired by 
the great and. the vulgar, than now. A courtier has 
been known to spend his whole fortune at a single 
combat ; a king to mortgage his dominions to furnish 
out the frippery of a tournament. There were certain 
days appomted for riot and debauchery, and to be 
sober at such times was reputed a crime. Kings 
themselves set the example j and I have seen monarchs 
in this room drunk before the entertainment was half 
concluded. These were the times, sir, when the kings 
kept mistresses, and got drunk in public ; they were 
too plain and simple in those happy times to hide 
their vices, and act the hypocrite as now.' — ' Lord, 
Mrs. Quickly !' interrupting her, ' I expected to hear 
a story, and here you are going to tell me 1 know not 
what of times and vices ; pr'ythee let me entreat thee 
once more to waive reflections, and give thy history 
without deviation.' 

' No lady upon earth,' continued my visionary cor- 
respondent, ' knew how to put off her damaged wine 
or women with more art than she. When these grew 
flat, or those paltry, it was but changing their names ; 
the wine became excellent, and the girls agreeable. 
She was also possessed of the engaging leer, the chuck 
under the chin, winked at a double entendre, could 
nick the opportunity of calling for something com- 
fortable, and perfectly understood the distinct moments 
when to withdraw. The gallants of those times pretty 
much resembled the bloods of ours ; they were fond of 
pleasure, but quite ignorant of the art of refining upon 
it : thus a court-bawd of those times resembled the 
common, low-lived harridan of a modern bagnio. — 
Witness, ye powers of debauchery ! how often I have 
been present at the various appearances of, drunken- 
ness, riotj guilt, and brutality. A tavern is a true 
picture of human infirmity ; in history we find only 
Q2 



446 ESSAYS. 

one side of the age exhibited to our view ; but in the 
accounts of a tavern we see every age equally absurd 
and equally vicious. 

' Upon this lady's decease, the tavern was succes- 
sively occupied by adventurers, bullies, pimps, and 
gamesters. Towards the conclusion of the reign of 
Henry V'll. gaming was more universally practised 
in England than even now. Kings themselves have 
been known to play off, at primero, not only all the 
money and jewels they could part with, but the very 
images in churches. Tlie last Henry played away, 
in this very room, not only the four great bells of St. 
Paul's cathedral, but the fine image of St. Paul, 
which stood upon the top of the spire, to Sir Miles 
Partridge, who took them down the next day, and 
sold them by auction. Have you then any cause to 
regret being born in the times you now live in, or do 
you still believe that human nature continues to run 
on declining every ase "! If we observe the actions of 
tiie busy part of mankind, your ancestors will be found 
infinitely more gross, servile, and even dishonest, than 
you. If, forsaking history, we only trace them in 
their hours of amusement and dissipation, we shall 
find them more sensual, more entirely devoted to 
pleasure, and infinitely more selfish. 

' The last hostess of note I find upon record was 
Jane Rouse. She ivas born among the lower ranks 
of the people ; and by frugality and extrema com- 
plaisance, contrived to acquire a moderate fortune : 
this she might have enjoyed for many years, had she 
not unfortunately quarrelled with one of her neigh- 
bours, a woman who was in high repute for sanctity 
through the whole parish. In the times of which I 
speak, two women seldom quarrelled that one did not 
accuse the other of witchcraft, and she who first con- 
trived to vomit crooked pins was sure to come off vic- 
torious. The scandal of a modern tea-table differs 
widely from the scandal of former times ; the fascina- 
tion of a lacly's eyes, at present, is regarded as a com- 
pliment J but if a lady formerly should be accused of 



ESSAYS. 347 

having witchcraft in her eyes, it were much better, 
both for her soul and body, that she had no eyes at all. 

' In short, Jane Rouse was accused of witchcraft, 
and though she made the best defence she could, it 
was all to no purpose ; she was taken from her own bar 
to the bar of the Old Bailey, condemned, and executed 
accordingly. These were times, indeed ! when even 
women could not scold in safety. 

' Since her time the tavern underwent several revo- 
lutions, according to the spirit of the times, or the dis- 
position of the reigning monarch. It was this day a 
brothel, and the next a conventicle for enthusiasts. 
It was one year noted for harbouring whigs, and the 
next infamous for a retreat to tories. Some years ago 
it was in high vogue, but at present it seems declin- 
ing. This only may be remarked in general, that 
whenever taverns flourish most, the times are then most 
extravagant and luxurious.'—' Lord, Mrs. Quickly!' 
interrupted I, ' you have really deceived me ; I ex- 
pected a romance, and here you have been this 
half-hour giving me only a description of the spirit of 
the times ; if you have nothing but tedious remarks to 
communicate, seek some other hearer ; I am deter- 
mined to hearken only to stories.' 

I had scarce concluded, when my eyes and ears 
seemed opened to my landlord, who had been all this 
while giving me an account of the repairs he had 
made in the house, and v/as now got into the story of 
the cracked glass in the dining-room. 



ON QUACK DOCTORS. 

WnATEVEU may be the merits of tlie English in ether 
sciences, they seem peculiarly excellent in the art of 
healing. There is scarcely a disorder incident to 
humanity, against which our advertising doctors are 
not possessed with a most infallible antidote. The 
professors of other arts confess the inevitable intricacy 
of things ; talk with doubt, and decide with hesitation : 



34S ESSAYS, 

but doubting is entirely unknown in medicine : the 
advertising professors here delight in cases of difficulty ; 
be the disorder ever so desperate or radical, you will 
find numbers in every street, who, by levelling a pill 
at the part affected, promise a certain cure without 
loss of time, knowledge of a bedfellow, or hinderance 
of business. 

When I consider the assiduity of this profession, 
their benevolence amazes me. They not only, in ge- 
neral, give their medicines for half value, but use the 
most persuasive remonstrances to induce the sick to 
come and be cured. Sure there must be something 
strangely obstinate in an English patient, who refuses 
so much health upoii such easy terms ! Does he take 
a pride in being bloated with a dropsy? does he find 
pleasure in the alternations of an intermittent fever ? 
or feel as much satisfaction in nursing up his gout, as 
he found pleasure in acquiring it"! He must; other- 
wise he would never reject such repeated assurances 
of instant relief. What can be more convincing than 
the manner in which the sick are invited to be well ' 
The doctor first begs the most earnest attention of the 
public to what he is going to propose ; he solemnly 
affirms the pill was never found to want success ; he 
produces a list of those who have been rescued from 
the grave by taking it. Yet, notwithstanding all this, 
there are many here who now and then think proper 
to be sick : — only sick did I say 1 there are some who 
even think proper to die ! Yes, by the head of Con- 
fucius, they die ! though they might have purchased 
the health-restoring specific for half-a-crown at every 
corner. 

I can never enough admire the sagacity of this coun • 
try for the encouragement given to the professors of 
this art; with what indulgence does she foster up 
those of her own growth, and kindly cherish those 
that come from abroad ! Like a skilful gardener, she 
invites them from every foreign climate to herself. 
Here every great exotic strikes rout as soon as imported, 
and feels the genial beam of favour ; while the mighty 



ESSAYS. 349 

metropolis, like one vast munificent dunghill, receives 
them mdisciiminately to her breast, and supplies each 
vcith more than native nourishment. 

In other countr.ies the physician pretends to cure 
disorders in the lump; the same doctor who combats 
the gout in the toe, shall pretend to prescri.be for a 
pain in the head ; and he who at one time cures a 
consumption, shall at another give drugs for a dropsy. 
How absurd and ridiculous ! this is being a mere jack 
of all trades. Is the animal machine less complicated 
than a brass pin 1 Not less than ten different hands 
are required to make a brass pin ; and shall the body 
be set right by one single operator ? 

The English are sensible of the force of this reason- 
ing; they have therefore one doctor for the eyes, an- 
other for the toes ; they have their sciatica doctors, 
and inoculating doctors ; they have one doctor, who is 
modestly content with securing them from bug-bites, 
and five hundred who prescribe for the bite of mad 
dogs. 

But as nothing pleases curiosity more than anec- 
dotes of the great, however minute or trifling, I must 
present you, inadequate as my abilities are to the 
subject, with an account of c«e or two of those per- 
sonages who lead in this honourable profession. 

The first upon the list of glory is Doctor Richard 
Rock, F. U. N. This great man is short of stature, 
is fat, and waddles as he walks. He always wears a 
white three-tailed wig, nicely combed, and frizzled 
upon each cheek. Sometimes he carries a sane, but a 
hat never ; it is indeed very remarkable that this ex- 
traordinary personage should never wear a hat; but 
so it is, a hat he never wears. He is usually drawn, 
at the top of his own bills, sitting in his arm-chair, 
holding a little bottle between his finger and thumb, 
and surrounded with rotten teeth, nippers, pills, pac- 
kets, and gallipots. No man can promise fairer or 
better than he; for, as he observes, 'Be your dis- 
order never so far gone, be under no uneasiness, 
make yourself quite easy, I can cure you.' 



350 ESSAYS. 

The next in fame, though by some reckoned of equal 
pretensions, is Doctor Timothy Franks, F. O. G. H. 
living in the Old Bailey. As Rock is remarkably 
squab, his great rival Franks is as remarkably tall. 
He vcas born in the year of the Christian era 1692, 
and is, while I now write, exactly sixty-eight years 
three months and four days old. Age, however, has 
no ways impaired his usual health and vivacity; I am 
told he generally walks with his breast open. This 
gentleman, who is of a mixed reputation, is particu- 
larly remarkable for a becoming assurance, which 
carries him gently through life ; for, except Dr. Rock, 
none are more blessed with the advantages of face 
than Dr. Franks. 

And yet the great have their foibles as well as the 
little. I am almost ashamed to mention it. Let the 
foibles of the great rest in peace. Yet I must impart 
the whole. These two great men are actually now 
at variance; like mere men, mere common mortals. — 
Rock advises the world to beware of bog-trotting 
quacks : Franks retorts the wit and sarcasm, by fix- 
ing on his rival the odious appellation of Dumpling 
Dick. He calls the serious Doctor Rock, Dump- 
ling Dick ! Head of Confucius, what profanation ! 
Dumpling Dick! What a pity, ye powers, that the 
learned, who were born mutually to assist in enlighten- 
ing the world, should thus differ among themselves, 
and make even the profession ridiculous! Sure the 
world is wide eoough, at least, for two great person- 
ages to figure in: men of science should leave con- 
troversy to the little world below them ; and then we 
might see Rock and Franks walking together, hand iu 
hand, smiling onward to immortality. 



ADVENTURES OF A STROLLING PLAYER. 

I AM fond of amusem,ent, in whatever company it ia 
to be found : and wit, though dressed in rags, is ever 
pleasing to roe, I went some days ago to take a 



ESSAYS. 351 

walk in St. James's Park, about the hour in which 
company leave it to go to dinner. There were but 
few in the walks, and those who stayed seemed by 
their looks rather more willing to forget that they had 
an appetite, than gain one. I sat down on one of 
the benches, at the other end of which was seated a 
man in very shabby clothes. 

We continued to groan, to hem, and to cough, as 
usual upon such occasions ; and, at last, ventured 
upon conversation. ' I beg pardon, sir,' cried I, ' but 
I think I have seen you before ; your face is familiar 
to me.' — ' Yes, sir,' replied he, ' I have a good familiar 
face, as my friends tell me. I am as well known in 
every town in England as the dromedary, or live 
crocodile. You must understand, sir, that I have 
been these sixteen years merry-andrew to a puppet- 
show : last Bartholomew fair my master and I quar- 
relled, beat each other, and parted; he to sell his 
puppets to the pincushion-makers in Rosemary-lane, 
and I to starve in St. James s Park.' 

' I am sorry, sir, that a person of your appearance 
should labour under any difficulties.' — ' O sir,' re- 
turned he, ' my appearance is very much at your ser- 
vice : but, though 1 cannot boast of eating much, yet 
there are few that are merrier; if I had twenty thou- 
sand a year I should be very merry ; and, thank the 
Pates, though not worth a groat, I am very merry still. 
If I have threepence in my pocket, I never refuse to 
be my three halfpence ; and, if I have no money, I 
never scorn to be treated by any that are kind enough 
to pay the reckoning. What think you, sir, of a steak 
and a tankard! You shall treat me now, and I will 
treat you again when I find you in the Park in love 
with eating, and without money to pay for a dinner.' 

As I never refuse a small expense for the sake of a 
merry companion, we instantly adjourned to a neigh- 
bouring ale-house, and, in a few momenis, had a 
frothing tankard, and a smoking steak, spread on the 
table before us. It is impossible to express how mucn 
the sight of such good cheer improved my companion s 



352 ESSAYS. 

vivacity. ' I like this dinner, sir,' says he, ' for three 
reasons; first, because I am naturally fond of beef; 
secondly, because I am hungry; and, thirdly and 
lastly, because I get it for nothing : no meat eats so 
sweet as that for which we do not pay.' 

He therefore now fell to, and his appetite seemed to 
correspond with his inclination. After dinner was 
over, he observed that the steak was tough ; ' and yet, 
sir,' returns he, ' bad as it was, it seemed a rump-steak 
to me. O the delights of poverty and a good appetite ! 
We beggars are the very fondlings of Nature; the 
rich she treats like an arrant step-mother ; they are 
pleased with nothing ; cut a steak from what part you 
will, and it is insupportably tough ; dress it up with 
pickles, and even pickles cannot procure them an 
appetite. But the whole creation is filled with good 
things for the beggar ; Calvert's butt out-tastes cham- 
paign, and Sedgeley's home-brewed excels tokay. Joy, 
joy, my blood ; though our estates lie no where, we 
have fortunes wherever we go. If an inundation sweeps 
away half the grounds in Cornwall, I am content ; I 
have no land there : if the stocks sink, that gives me 
no uneasiness ; I am no Jew.' The fellow's vivacity, 
joined to his poverty, I own, raised my curiosity to 
know something of his life and circumstances ; and I 
entreated that he would indulge my desire. — ' That I 
will,' said he, ' and welcome ; only let us drink, to 
prevent our sleeping ; let us have another tankard, 
while we are awake ; let us have another tankard ; 
for, ah, how charming a tankard looks when full! 

' You must know, then, that I am very well de- 
scended ; my ancestors have made some noise in the 
world, for my mother cried oysters, and my father 
beat a drum : I am told we have even had some trum- 
peters in our family. Many a nobleman cannot shew 
so respectful a genealogy ; but that is neither here nor 
there. As I was their only child, my father designed 
to breed m-e up to his own employment, which was 
that of a drummer to a puppet-show. Thu3,the whole 
employment of my younger years was that of inter- 



ESSAYS. 353 

prefer (o Punch and King- Solomon in all his glory. 
But, though my father was very fond of instructing 
ine in beating all the marches and points of war, I 
made no very great progress, because I naturally had 
no ear for music : so at the age of fifteen, I went and 
listed for a soldier. As I had ever hated beating a 
drum, so I soon found that I disliked carrying a musket 
also ; neither the one trade nor the other was to my 
taste, for I was by nature fond of being a gentleman : 
besides, I was obliged to obey my captain ; he has 
his will, I have mine, and you have yours : now I 
very reasonably concluded, that it was much more 
comfortable for a man to obey his own will than 
anot'her's. 

' The life of a soldier soon therefore gave me the 
spleen ; I asked leave to quit the service ; but, as I 
was tail and strong, my captain thanked me for my 
kind intention, and said, because he had a regard for 
me we should not part. I wrote to my father a very 
dismal, penitent letter, and desired that he would raise 
money to pay for my discharge ; but the good man 
was as fond of drinking as I was (sir, my service to 
you), and those who are fond of drinking never pay 
for other people's discharges : in short, he never an- 
swered my letter. What could be done? If I have 
not money, said I to myself, to pay for my discharge, 
I must find an equivalent some other way ; and that 
must be by running away. I deserted, and that an- 
swered my purpose every bit as well as if I had bought 
my discharge. 

' Well, I was now fairly rid of my military employ- 
ment, I sold my soldier's clothes, bought worse, and, 
in order not to be overtaken, took the most unfre- 
quented roads possible. One evening, as I was 
entering a village, I perceived a man, whom I after- 
ward found to be the curate of the parish, thrown from 
his horse in a miry road, and almost smothered in the 
mud He desired my assistance : I gave it, and drew 
him out with some difficulty. He thanked me for my 
trouble and was going off ; but I followed him home. 



354 



ESSAYS. 



for I loved always to have a man thank me at his own 
door. The curate asked a hundred questions; as, 
whose son I was ; froni whence I came ; and whether 
I would be faithful. I answered him greatly to his 
satisfaction, and gave myself one of the best characters 
in the world for sobriety (sir, I have the' honour of 
drinking your health), discpetion, and fidelity. To 
make a long story short, he wanted a servant, and 
hired me. With him I lived but two months ; we did 
not much like each other ; I was fond of eating, and 
he gave me but little to eat ; I loved a pretty girl, and 
the old woman, my fellow-servant, was ill-natured 
and ugly. As they endeavoured to starve me between 
them, 1 made a pious resolution to prevent their com- 
mitting murder : I stole the eggs as soon as they were 
laid ; I emptied every unfinished bottle that 1 could 
lay my hands on ; whatever eatable came in my way 
was sure to disappear : in short, they found I would 
not do ; so I was discharged one morning, and paid 
three shillings and sixpence for two months' wages. 

' While my money was getting ready, I employed 
myself in making preparations for my departure ; two 
hens were hatching in an out-house, I went and took 
the eggs from habit, and, not to separate the parents 
from the children, I lodged hens and all in my knap- 
sack. After this piece of frugality, I returned to 
receive my money, and, with my knapsack vm my 
back and a staff in my hand, I bid adieu, with tears 
in my eyes, to my old benefactor. I had not gone far 
from the house when I heard behind me the cry of 
" Stop thief!" but this only increased my despatch: 
it wooild have been foolish for me to stop, as I knew 
the voice could not be levelled at me. But hold, I 
think I passed those two months at the curate's with- 
out drinking ; come, the times are dry, and may this 
be my poison if ever I spent two more pious, stupid 
months i-n all my life. 

' Well, after travelling some days, whom should I 
light upon but a company of strolling players? The 
moment I saw them at a distance, my heart wanned 



ESSAYS. 355 

to them : I Iiad a sort of natural love foi every thing 
of the vagabond order ; they were employed in settling 
their baggage which had been overturned in a narrow 
way ; I offered my assistance, which they accepted ; 
and we soon became so well acquainted, that they 
took me as a servant. This was a paradise to me ; 
they sung, danced, drank, eat, and travelled, all at the 
same time. By the blood of the Mirabels, I thought 
I had never lived till then ; I grew as merry as a gric, 
and laughed at every word that was spoken. They 
liked me as much as 1 liked them ; 1 was a very good 
figure, as you see ; and, though I was poor, I was not 
modest. 

' I love a straggling life above all things in the 
world ; sometimes good, sometimes bad : to be warm 
to-day and cold to-morrow ; to eat when one can get 
it, and drink when (the tankard is out) it stands before 
me. We arrived that evening at Tenterden, and took 
a large room at the Greyhound, where we resolved to 
exhibit Romeo and Juliet, with the funeral procession, 
the grave and the garden scene. Romeo was to be 
performed by a gentleman from the theatre royal in 
Drury-lane; Juliet, b}' a lady who had never appeared 
on any stage before ; and I was to snufF the candles ; 
all excellent in our way. We had figures enough, but 
the difficulty was to dress them. The same coat that 
served Romeo, turned with the blue lining outwards, 
served for his friend Mercutio ; a large piece of crape* 
sufficed at once for Juliet's petticoat and pall ; a pestle 
and mortar, from a neighbouring apothecary's, an- 
swered all the purposes of a bell : and our landlord's 
own family, wrapped in white sheets, served to fill up 
the procession. In short, there were but three figures 
among us that might be said to be dressed with any 
propriety ; I mean the nurse, the starved apothecary, 
and myself. Our performance gave universal satis- 
faction : the whole audience were enchanted with our 
powers. 

' There is one rule by which a strolling player may 
be ever secure of success ; that is, in our theatrical 



350 ESSAYS, 

way of expressing it, to make a great deal of the cha- 
racter. To speak, and act as in common life, is not 
playing, nor is it what people come to see : natural 
speaking, like sweet wine, runs glibly over the palate, 
and scarce leaves any taste behind it : but being high 
in a part resembles vinegar, which grates upon the taste, 
and one feels it while he is drinking. To please in 
town or country, the way is, to cry, wring, cringe 
into attitudes, mark the emphasis, slap the pockets, 
and labour like one in the falling-sickness; that is 
the way to work for applause ; that is the way to 
gain it. 

' As we received much reputation for our skill on 
this first exhibition, it was but natural for me to ascribe 
part of the success to myself; I snufFed the candies ; 
and, let me tell you, that without a candle-snufTer, 
the piece would lose half its embellishments. In this 
manner we continued a fortnight, and drew tolerable 
houses : but the evening before our intended depar- 
ture, we gave out our very best piece, in which all our 
strength was to be exerted. VVe had great expecta- 
tions from this, and even doubled our prices, when^ 
behold ! one of the principal actors fell ill of a violent 
fever. This was a stroke like thunder to our little 
company : they were resolved to go, in a body, to 
scold the man for falling sick at so inconvenient a 
time, and that too of a disorder that threatened to be 
expensive. I seized the moment, and offered to act 
the part myself in his stead. The case was desperate ; 
they accepted my offer; and I accordingly sat dowii 
with the part in my hand, and a tankard before me 
(sir, 3'our health), and studied the character, which 
was to be rehearsed the next day, and played soon 
after. 

*I found my memory excessively helped by drink- 
ing : I learned my part with astonishing rapidity, and 
bid adieu to snuffing candles ever after. I found that 
Nature had designed me for more noble employments, 
and I was resolved to take her when in the humour. 
We got together in order to rehearse, and 1 informed 



ESSAYS. 357 

my companions, masters now no longer, of the surpris- 
ing change I felt within me. Let the sick man, said 
I, be under no uneasiness to get well again ; I'll fill 
his place to universal satisfaction : he may even die, 
if he thinks proper ; I'll engage that he shall never 
be missed. I rehearsed before them, struifd, ranted, 
and received applause. They soon gave out.that a 
new actor of eminence was to appear, and immediately 
all the genteel places were bespoke. Before I as- 
cended the stage, however, I concluded within myself, 
that, as I brought money to the house, I ought to have 
my share in the profits. Gentlemen (said I, address- 
ing our company)., I don't pretend to direct you ; far 
be it from me to treat you with so much ingratitude : 
you have published my name in the bills with the ut- 
most good-nature ; and, as affairs stand, cannot act 
without me ; so, gentlemen, to shew you my gratitude, 
I expect to be paid for my acting as much as any of 
you, otherwise 1 declare off; I'll brandish' my snuffers 
and clip candles as usual. This was a very disagree- 
able proposal, but they found that it was impossible to 
refuse it ; it was irresistible, it was adamant : they 
consented, and I went on in king Bajazet : my frown- 
ing brows bound with a stocking stuffed into a turban, 
while on my captived arms -I brandished a jack-chain. 
Nature seemed to have fitted me for the part ; I was 
tall, and had a loud voice; my very entrance excited 
universal applause ; 1 looked round on the audience 
with a smile, and made a most low and graceful bow, 
for that is the rule among us. As it was a very pas- 
sionate part, I invigorated my spirits with three full 
glasses (the tankard is almost out) of brandy. By Alia 1 
it is almost inconceivable howl went through it. Tamer- 
lane was but a fool to me ; though he was sometimes 
loud enough too, yet I was still louder than he ; but 
then, besides, I had attitudes in abundance ; in gene- 
ral, I kept my arms folded up thus upon the pit of my 
stomach ; it is the way at Drury-lane, and has always 
a fine effect. The tankard would sink to the bottom 
before I could get through the whole of my merits : 



358 ESSAYS. 

in short, I came off like a prodigy ; and, such was 
my success, that I could ravish the laurels even from 
a sirloin of beef. The principal gentlemen and ladies 
of the town came to me, after the play was over, to 
compliment me on my success : one praised my voice, 
another my person : Upon my vpord, says the squire's 
lady, he will make one of the finest actors in Europe ; 
I say it, and I think I am something of a judge. — 
Praise in the beginning is agreeable enough, and we 
receive it as a favour ; but when it comes in great 
quantities we regard it only as a debt, which nothing 
but our merit could extort : instead of thanking them, 
I internally applauded myself. We were desired to 
give our piece a second time ; we obeyed, and I was 
applauded even more than before. 

' At last we left the town, in order to be at a horse- 
race at some distance from thence. I shall never 
think of Tenterden without tears of gratitude and 
respect. The ladies and gentlemen there, take my 
word for it, are very good judges of plays and actors. 
Come, let us drink their healths, if you please, sir. 
We quitted the town, I say : and there was a wide 
difference between my coming in and going out : I 
entered the town a candle snuffer, and I quitted it a 
hero ! — Such is the world — little to-day, and great to- 
morrow. I could say a great deal more upon that 
subject, something t>ruly sublime, upon the uf)s and 
downs of fortune ; but it would give us both the 
spleen, and so I shall pass it over. 

' The races were ended before we arrived at the next 
town, which was no small disappointment to oui 
company; however, we were resolved to take all we 
could get. I played capital characters there too, and 
came off with my usual brilliancy. I sincerely be- 
lieve I should have been the first actor in Europe, 
had my growing merit been properly cultivated ; but 
there came an unkindly frost which nipped me in the 
bud, and levelled me once more down to the common 
standard of humanity. I played Sir Harry Wildair ; 
all the country ladies were charmed : if 1 but drew 



ESSAYS. 359 

out my snuff-box, the whole house was in a roar of 
rapture ; when 1 exercised my cudgel, I thought they 
would have fallen into convulsions. 

' There was here a lady who had received an edu- 
cation of nine months in London, and this gave her 
pretensions to taste, which rendered her the indisput- 
able mistress of the ceremonies wherever she came. 
She was informed of my merits : every body praised 
me : yet she refused at first going to see me perform ; 
she could not conceive, she said, any thing but stuff 
from a stroller ; talked something in praise of Garrick, 
and amazed the ladies with her skill in enunciations, 
tones, and cadences. She was at last, however, pre- 
vailed upon to go ; and it was privately intimated to 
me what a judge was to be present at my next exhi- 
bition : however no way intimidated, I came on in 
Sir Harry, one hand stuck in my breeches, and the 
other in my bosom, as usual at Drury-lane ; but, 
instead of looking at me, I perceived the v/hole au- 
dience had tlieir eyes turned upon the lady who had 
been nine months in London ; from her they expected 
the decision which was to secure the general's trun- 
cheon in my hands, or sink me down into a theatrical 
letter-carrier. I opened my snufF-box, took snufF; 
the lady was solemn, and so were the rest. I broke 
my cudgel on Alderman Smuggler's back ; still gloomy, 
melancholy all ; the lady groaned and shrugged her 
shoulders. I attempted, by laughing myself, to ex- 
cite at least a smile ; but the devil a cheek could I 
perceive wrinkled into sympathy. I found it would 
not do ; all my good-humour now became forced ; 
my laughter was converted into hysteric grinning ; 
and, while I pretended spirits, my eyes shewed the 
agony of my heart ! In short, the lady came with an 
intention to be displeased, and displeased she was ; 

my fame expired : — I am here, and the tankard is 

DO morel' 



360 ESSAYS. 

RULES ENJOINED TO BE OBSERVED AT 

A RUSSIAN ASSEMBLY, 

When Catharina Alexowna was made empress of 
Russia, the women were in an actual state of bondage; 
but she un"dertook to introduce mixed assemblies, as 
in other parts of Europe ; she altered the women's 
dress by substituting the fashions of England ; instead 
of furs, she brought in the use of taffeta and damask. ; 
and cornets and commodes instead of caps of sable. 
The women now found themselves no longer shut up 
in separate apartments, but saw company, visited each 
other, and were present at every entertainment. 

But as the laws to this effect were directed to a 
savage people, it is amusing enough to see the manner 
in which the ordinances ran. Assemblies were quite 
unknown among them : the czarina was satisfied with 
introducing them, for she found it impossible to ren- 
der them polite. An ordinance was therefore pub- 
lished according to their notions of breeding, which, 
as it is a curiosity, and has never before been printed 
that we know of, we shall give our readers • 

I. The person at whose house the assembly is to 
be kept, shall signify the same by hanging out a bill, 
or by giving some other public notice, by way of ad- 
vertisement, to persons of both sexes. 

II. The assembly shall not be open sooner than 
four or five o'clock in the afternoon, nor continue 
longer than ten at night. 

III. The master of the house shall not be obliged 
to meet his guests, or conduct them out, or keep them 
company ; but though he is exempt from all this, he 
is to find them chairs, candles, liquors, and all othei 
necessaries that company may ask for : he is likewise 
to provide them with cards, dice, and every necessary 
for gaming. 

IV. There shall be no fixed hour for coming or 
going away ; it is enough for a person to appear ia 
the assembly. 



ESSAYS. 361 

V. Every one shall be free to sit, walk, or game, 
as he pleases : nor shall any one go about to hinder 
him, or take exception at what he does, upon pain of 
emptying the great eagle (a pint-bowl full of brandy): 
it shall likewise be sufficient, at entering or retiring, to 
salute the company. 

VI. Persons of distinction, noblemen, superior of- 
ficers, mercliants, and tradesmen of note, head work- 
men, especially carpenters, and persons employed in 
chancery, are to have liberty to enter the assemblies; 
as likewise their wives and children. 

VII. A particular place shall be assigned the foot- 
men, except those of the house, that there may be 
room enough in the apartments designed for the as- 
sembly. 

VIII. No ladies are to get drunk upon any pre- 
tence whatsoever, nor shall gentlemen be drunk before 
nine. 

IX. Ladies who play at forfeitures, questions and 
commands, &c. shall not be riotous : no gentlemen 
shall attempt to force a kiss, and no person shall offer 
to strike a woman in the assembly, under pain of 
future exclusion. 

Such are the statutes upon this occasion, which, in 
their very appearance, carry an air of ridicule and 
satire. But politeness must enter every country by 
degrees ; and these rules resemble the breeding of a 
clown, awkward but sincere. 



THE GENIUS OF LOVE: 

AN EASTERN APOLOGUE. 

TuE formalities, delays, and disappointments, that pre- 
cede a treaty of marriage here, are usually as numer- 
ous as those previous to a treaty of peace. The laws 
of this country are finely calculated to promote all 
commerce, but the commerce between the sexes 
Their encouragements for propagating hemp, madder 
E, 



362 ESSAYS. 

and tobacco, are indeed admirable ! Marriages are 
the only commodity that meets with none. 

Yet, from the vernal softness of the air, the verdure 
of the fields, the transparency of the streams, and the 
beauty of the women, I know few countries more 
proper to invite to courtship. Here Love might sport 
among painted lawns and warbling groves, and revel 
amidst gales, wafting at once both fragrance and har- 
mony. Yet it seems he has forsaken the island ; and, 
when a couple are now to be married, mutual love, 
or a union of minds, is the last and most trifling con- 
sideration. If their goods and chattels can be brought 
to unite, fheir sympathetic souls are ever ready to 
guarantee the treaty. The gentleman's mortgaged 
lawn becomes enamoured of the lady's marriageable 
grove ; the match is struck up, and both parties are 
piously in love — according to act of parliament. 

Thus they who have a fortune, are possessed at least 
of something that is lovely ; but I actually pity those 
that have none. I am told there was a time when 
ladies, with no other merit but youth, virtue, and 
beauty, had a chance for husbands, at least among 
the ministers of the church, or the officers of the 
army. The blush and innocence of sixteen was said 
to have a powerful influence over these two profes- 
sions ; but, of late, all the little traffic of blushing, 
ogling, dimpling, and smiling, has been forbidden by 
an act in that case wisely made and provided. A 
lady's whole cargo of smiles, sighs, and whispers, is 
declared utterly contraband, till, she arrives in the 
warm latitude of twenty-two, where commodities of 
this nature are found too often to decay. She is then 
permitted to dimple and smile, when the dimples and 
smiles begin to forsake her; and, when perhaps grown 
ugly, is charitably intrusted with an unlimited use of 
her charms. Her lovers, however, by this time, have 
forsaken her; the captain has changed for another 
mistress ; the priest himself leaves her in solitude to 
bewail her virginity, and she dies even without benefit 
of clergy. 

Thus you find the Europeans likco'iv' '■■■■: /. .(- 



! .- .16. S63 

with as much earnebtness as the rudest savage of So- 
fala. The Genius is surely now no more. In every 
region I find enemies in arms to oppress him. Avarice 
in Europe, jealousy in Persia, ceremony in China, 
poverty among the Tartars, and lust in Circassia, are 
all prepared to oppose his power, 'i'he Genius is cer- 
tainly banished from earth, though once adored under 
such a variety of forms. He is no where to be found ; 
and all that the ladies of each country can produce, are 
but a few trifling relics, as instances of his former re- 
sidence and favour. 

' The Genius of Love,' says the eastern apologue, 
' had long resided in the happy plains of Abra, where 
every breeze was health, and every sound produced 
tranquillity. His temple at first was crowded, but 
every age lessened the number of his votaries, or cooled 
their devotion. Perceiving, therefore, his altars at 
length quite deserted, he was resolved to remove to 
some more propitious region ; and he apprized the fair 
sex of every country, where he could hope for a proper 
reception, to assert their right to his presence among 
them. In return to this proclamation, embassies were 
sent from the ladies of every part of the world to in- 
vite him, and to display the superiority of their claims. 

' And, first, the beauties of China appeared. No 
country could compare with them for modesty, either 
of look, dress, or behaviour ; their eyes were never 
lifted from the ground ; their robes, of the most beau- 
tiful silk, hid their hands, bosom, and neck, while their 
faces only were left uncovered. They indulged no 
airs that might express loose desire, and they seemed 
to study only the graces of inanimate beauty. Their 
black teeth and plucked eye-brows were, however, 
alleged by the genius against them ; but he set them 
entirely aside when he came to examine their little 
feet. 

' The beauties of Circassia next made their appear- 
ance. They advanced, hand in hand, singing the most 
immodest airs, and leading up a dance in the most 
luxurious attitudes. Their dress was but half a cover- 
ing ; the neck, the left breast, and all the limbs, were 



364 ESSAYS. 

exposed to view, which, after some time, seemed rather 
to satiate, than inflame desire. The lily and the rose 
contended in forming their complexions ; and a soft 
sleepiness of eye added irresistible poignance to their 
charms ; but their beauties were obtruded, not offered 
to their admirers ; they seemed to give, rather than 
receive courtship ; and the genius of love dismissed 
them, as unworthy his regard, since they exchanged 
the duties of love, and made themselves not the pur- 
sued, but the pursuing sex, 

' The kingdom of Kashmire next produced its charm- 
ing deputies. This happy region seemed peculiarly 
sequestered by nature for liis abode. Shady moun- 
tains fenced it on one side from the scorching sun; 
and sea-borne breezes, on the other, gave peculiar 
luxuriance to the air. Their complexions were of a 
bright yellow, tha* appeared almost transparent, while 
the crimson tulip seemed to blossom on their cheeks. 
Their features and limbs were delicate beyond the 
statuary's power to express ; and their teeth whiter 
than their own ivory. He was almost persuaded to 
reside among them, when unfortunately one of the 
ladies talked of appointing his seraglio, 

' In this procession the naked inhabitants of Southern 
America would not be left behind; their charms were 
found to surpass whatever the warmest imagination 
could conceive ; and served to shew, that beauty 
could be perfect, even with the seeming disadvantage 
of a brown complexion. But their savage education 
rendered them utterly unqualified to make the proper 
use of their power, and they were rejected as being 
incapable of uniting mental with sensual satisfaction. 
In this manner the deputies of other kingdoms had 
their suits rejected: the black beauties of Benin, and 
the tawny daughters of Borneo ; the women of Wida 
with scarred faces, and the hideous virgins of Caf- 
fraria ; the squab ladies of Lapland, three feet high, 
and the giant fair ones of Patagonia. 

' The beauties of Europe at last appeared : grace 
was in their steps, and sensibility sat smiling in every 
eye. It was the universal opinion, while they were 



. ESSAYS. 365 

approaching, that they would prevail : and the geniua 
seemed to lend them his most favourable attention. — 
They opened their pretensions with the utmost mo- 
desty ; but unfortunately, as their orator proceeded, 
she happened to let fall the words, house in town, 
settlement, and pin-money. These seemingly harm- 
less terms had instantly a surprising effect : the genius, 
with ungovernable rage, burst from amidst the circle ; 
and, waving his youthful pinions, left this earth, and 
flew back to those ethereal mansions from whence he 
descended. 

' The whole assembly was struck with amazement . 
they now justly apprehended that female power would 
bene more, since Love had forsaken them. They con- 
tinued some time thus in a state of torpid despair, when 
it was proposed by one of the number, that, since the 
real Genius of Love had left them, in order to continue 
their power, they should set up an idol in his stead ; 
and that the ladies of every country should furnish 
him with what each liked best. This proposal was 
instantly relished and agreed to. An idol of gold was 
formed by uniting the capricious gifts of all the as- 
sembly, though no way resembling the departed 
genius. The ladies of China furnished the monster 
with wings; those of Kashmire supplied him with 
horns ; the dames of Europe clapped a purse in his 
hand ; and the virgins of Congo furnished him with a 
tail. Since that time, all the vows addressed to Love, 
are in reality paid to the idol ; and, as i.n other false 
religions, the adoration seems more fervent where the 
heart is least sincere.' 



HISTORY OF THE DISTRESSES OP AN 
ENGLISH DISABLED SOLDIER. 

No observation is more common, and at the same time 
more true, than that 'one half of the world is ignorant 
how the other half lives.' The misfortunes of the 
great are held up to engage our attention ; are en- 
larged upon in tones of declamation ; and the world is 
called upon to gaze at the noble sufferers : the great. 



366 



ESSAYS. 



under the pressure of calamity, are conscious ot 
several others sympathizing with their distress ; and 
have, at once, the comfort of admiration and pity. 

There is nothing magnanimous in bearing misfor- 
tunes with fortitude when the whole vi'orld is looking 
on : men in such circumstances will act bravely even 
from motives of vanity : but he who, in the vale of 
obscurity, can brave adversity; who, without friends to 
encourage, acquaintances to pity, or even without 
hope to alleviate his misfortunes, can behave with 
tranquillity and indifference, is truly great : whether 
peasant or courtier, he deserves admiration, and 
should be held up for our imitation and respect. 

While the slightest inconveniences of fh« great are 
magnified into calamities ; while tragedy mouths out 
their sufferings in all the strains of eloquence — the 
miseries of the poor are entirely disregarded ; and yet 
some of the lower ranks of people undergo more real 
hardships in one day, than those of a more exalted 
station suffer in their whole lives. It is inconceivable 
what difficulties the meanest of our common sailors and 
soldiers endure without murm.uring or regret; without 
passionately declaiming against Providence, or call- 
ing on their fellows to be gazers on their intrepidity. 
Every day is to them a day of misery, and yet they 
entertain their hard fate without repining. 

With what indignation do I hear an Ovid, a 
Cicero, or a Rabutin, complain of their misfortunes 
and hardships, whose greatest calamity was that of 
being unable to visit a certain spot of earth, to which 
they had foolislily attached an idea of happiness ! Their 
distresses were pleasures compared to what many of 
the a-d venturing poor every day endure without mur- 
muring. They ate, drank, and slept ; they had slaves 
to attend them, and were sure of subsistence for life ; 
while many of their fellow-creatures are obliged to 
wander without a friend to comfort or assist them, 
and even without a shelter from the severity of the 
season. 

1 have been led into these reflections from acci- 
dentally meeting, some days ago, a poor fellow, whom 



ESSAYS. 367 

I knew when a boy, dressed in a sailor's jacket, and 
begging at one of the outlets of the town, with a 
wooden leg. I knew him to be honest and industri- 
ous when in the country, and was curious to learn 
what had reduced him to his present situation. 
Wherefore, after giving him what I thought proper, 
I desired to know the history of his life and misfor- 
tunes, and the manner in which he was reduced to 
his present distress. The disabled soldier, for such he 
was, though dressed in a sailor's habit, scratching his 
head, and leaning on his crutch, put himself into an 
attitude to comply with my request, and gave me his 
history as follows: — 

' As for my misfortunes, master, I can't pretend to 
have gone through any more than other folks : fot 
except the loss of my limb, and my being obliged to 
beg, I don't know any reason, thank Heaven, that I 
have to complain ; there is Bill Tibbs, of our regi- 
ment, he has lost both his legs, and an eye to boot ; 
but, thank Heaven, it is not so bad with me yet. 

' I was born in Shropshire ; my father was a la- 
bourer, and died when 1 was five years old, so I was 
put upon the parish. As he had been a wandering 
sort of a man, tiie parishioners were not able to tell to 
what parish 1 belonged, or where I was born, so they 
sent me to another parish, and that parish sent me to 
a third. I thought, in my heart, they kept sending 
me about so long, that they would not let me be born 
in any parish at all ; but at last, however, they fixed 
me. I had some disposition to be a scholar, and was 
resolved at least to know my letters ; but the master 
of the workhouse put me to business as soon as I was 
able to handle a mallet ; and here I lived an easy 
kind of a life for five years ; I only wrought ten hours 
in the day, and had my meat and drink provided for 
my labour. It is true, 1 was not suffered to stir out 
of the house, for fear, as they said, I should run away ; 
but what of thatl I had the liberty of the whole 
house, and the yard before the door, and that was 
enough for me. I was then bound out to a farmer, 
where I was up both early and late ; but I ate and 



368 ESSAYS. 

drank well, and liked my business well enough, till he 
died, when I was obliged to provide for myself; so I 
was resolved to go and seek my fortune. 

' In this manner I went from town to town, worked 
when I could get employment, and starved when I 
could get none ; when happening one day to go through 
a field belonging to a justice of the peace, I spied a 
hare crossing the path just before me ; and I believe 
the devil put it into my head to fling my stick at it : — 
well, what will you have on't ] I killed the hare, and 
was bringing it away in triumph, when the justice 
himself met me : he called me a poacher and a villain ; 
and, collaring me, desired I would give an account of 
myself. I fell upon my knees, begged his worship's 
pardon, and began to give a full account of all that I 
knew of my breed, seed, and generation ; but though 
I gave a very good account, the justice would not be- 
lieve a syllable I had to say ; so I was indicted at 
sessions, found guilty of being poor, and sent up to 
LoD'^.on to Nev«gate, in order to be transported as a 
vagabond. 

' People may say this and that oF tieing in jail ; but, 
for my part, I found Newgate as agreeable a place as 
ever I was in in all my life.* 1 had my bellyful! to 
eat and drink, and did no work at all. This kind of 
life was too good to last for ever ; so I was taken out 
of prison, after five months, put on board a ship, and 
sent off, with two hundred more, to the plantations. 
We •iad but an indifferent passage ; for, being all 
confined in the hold, more than a hundred of our peo- 
ple died for want of sweet air : and those that remained 
were sickly enough, God knows. When we came 
ashore we were sold to the planters, and I was bound 
for seven years more. As I was no scholar, for I did 
not know my letters, I was obliged to work among the 
negroes ; and I served out my time, as in duty bound 
to do. 

' When my time was expired, I worked my passage 
home, and glad I was to see old England again, be- 
cause 1 loved my country. I was afraid, however, 
that I should be indicted for a vagabond once moie. 



ESSAYS. 369 

so did not much care to go down into the country, but 
kept about the town, and did little jobs when I could 
get them. 

' I was very happy in this mantier for some time, 
till oile evening, coming home from work, two men 
knocked me down, and then desired me to stand. They 
belonged to a press-gang : I was carried before the 
justice, and as I could give no account of myself, I 
had my choice left, whether to go on board a man of 
war, or list for a soldier. I chose the latter ; and, in 
this post of a gentleman, I served two campaigns in 
Flanders, was at the battles of Val and Fontenoy, and 
received but one wound through the breast here ; but 
the doctor of our regiment soon made me well again. 

' When the peace came on I was discharged, and as 
I could not work, because my wound was sometimes 
troublesome, I listed for a landman in the East- India 
company's service. I here fought the French in six 
pitched battles ; and I verily believe, that if I could 
read or write, our captain would have made me a cor- 
poral. But it was not my good fortune to have any 
promotion, for 1 soon fell sick, and so got leave to re- 
turn home again, with forty pounds in my pocket. 
This was at the beginning of the present war, and I 
hoped to be set on shore, and to have the pleasure of 
spending my money ; but the government wanted men, 
and so I was pressed for a sailor before ever 1 could 
set foot on shore. 

• The boatswain found me, as he said, an obstinate 
fellow : he swore he knew that I understood my busi- 
ness well, but that I shammed Abraham, merely to be 
idle ; but God knows, I knew nothing of sea-business, 
and he beat me without considering what he was about. 
I had still, however, my forty pounds, and that was 
soitie comfort to me under every beating ; and the 
money I might have had to this day, but that our ship 
was taken by the French, and so I lost all. 

' Our crew was carried into Brest, and many ol 
them died because they were not used to live in a jail 
but for my part, it was nothing to me, for I was sea- 
112 



370 ESSAYS 

soned. One night as I was sleeping on the bed of 
boards, with a warm blanket about me, for I always 
loved to lie ivell, I was awakened by the boatswain, 
who had a dark lantern in his hand. Jack, says he to 
me.will you knock out the French sentries' brains 1 I 
don't care, says I, striving to keep myself awake, if I 
lend a hand. Then follow me, says he, and I hope 
we shall do business. So up I got, and tied my 
blanket, which was all the clothes I had, about my 
middle, and went with him to fight the Frenchmen. 
I hate the French because they are all slaves, and 
wear wooden shoes. 

' Though we had no arms, one Englishman is able 
to beat five French at any time ; so we went down to 
the door, where both the sentries were posted, and, 
rushing upon them, seized their arms in a moment, 
and knocked them down. From thence, nine of us ran 
together to the quay, and seizing the first boat we met, 
got out of the harbour and put to sea. We had not 
been here three days before we were taken up by the 
Dorset privateer, who were glad of so many good 
hands; and we consented to run our chance. How- 
ever, we had not so much good luck as we expected. 
In three days we fell in with the Pompadour privateer, 
of forty guns, while we had but twenty-three; so to it 
we went yard-arm and yard-arm. The fight lasted 
for three hours, and I verily believe we should have 
taken the Frenchman, had we but had some more men 
left behind ; but unfortunately we lost all our men 
just as we were going to get the victory. 

' I was once more in the power of the French, and 
I believe it would have gone hard with me had I been 
brought back to Brest : but, by good fortune, we were 
retaken by the Viper. I had almost forgot to tell you, 
that in that engagement I was wounded in two places: 
I lost four fingers of the left hand, and my leg was 
shot ofl^". If I had had the good fortune to have lost 
my leg and use of my hand on board a king's ship, 
and not aboard a privateer, I should have been en- 
titled to clothing and maintenance during the rest of 
ray life ; but that was not my chance : one man is 



ESSAYS. 371 

born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and another 
with a wooden ladle. However, blessed be God I I 
enjoy good health, and will for ever love liberty and 
Old England. Liberty, property, and Old England 
for ever, huzza !' 

Thus saying, he limped off, leaving me in admira- 
tion at his intrepidity and content ; nor could I avoid 
acknowledging, that an habitual acquaintance with 
misery serves better than philosophy to teach us to 
despise it. 



ON THE FRAILTY OF MAN, 

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BT THE ORDINARY OP 

NEWGATE. 

Man is a most frail being, incapable of directing his 
steps, unacquainted with what is to happen in this 
life ; and perhaps no man is a more manifest mstance 
of the truth of this maxim, than Mr. The. Gibber, just 
now gone out of the world. Such a variety of turns 
of fortune, yet such a persevering uniformity of con- 
duct, appears in all that happened in his short span, 
that the whole may be looked upon as one regular 
confusion ; every action of his life was matter of won- 
der and surprise, and his death was an astonishment. 

This gentleman was born of creditable parents, who 
gave him a very good education, and a great deal of 
good learning, so that he could read and write before 
he was sixteen. However, he early discoverai an in- 
clination to follow lewd courses ; he refused to fake the 
advice of his parents, and pursued the bent of his in- 
clination ; he played at cards on the Sundays, called 
himself a gentleman, fell out with his mother and 
laundress ; and, even in these early days, his father 
was frequently heard to observe, that young The. — 
would be hanged. 

As he advanced in years, he grew more fond of 
pleasure ; would eat an ortolan for dinner, though he 
begged the guinea that bought it; and was once known 
to give three pounds for a plate of green peas, which 



372 ESSAYS. 

he had collected over-night as charity for a friend in 
distress ; he ran into debt with every body that would 
trust him, and none could build a sconce better than 
he ; so that, at last, his creditors swore with one accord 
that The. — would be hanged. 

But, as getting into debt by a man who had no 
visible means but impudence for subsistence, is a thing 
that every reader is not acquainted with, I must ex- 
plain that point a little, and that to his satisfaction. 

There are three ways of getting into debt : first, by 
pushing a face; as thus, ' You, Mr. Lustring, send 
me home six yards of that paduasoy, damme ; — but 
hark'ye, don't think I ever intend to pay you for it — 
damme.' At this the mercer laughs heartily, cuts ofF 
the paduasoy, and sends it home ; nor is he, till too 
late, surprised to find the gentleman had said nothing 
but truth, and kept his word. 

The second method of running into debt is called 
fineering; which is getting goods made up in such a 
fashion as to be unfit for every other purchaser ; and, 
if the tradesman refuses to give them upon credit, then ■ 
threaten to leave them upon his hands. 

But the third and best method is called; ' Being the 
good customer.' The gentleman first buys some trifle, 
and pays for it in ready money ; he comes a few days 
after with nothing about him but bank bills, and buys, 
we will suppose, a sixpenny tweezer-case ; the bills 
are too great to be changed, so he promises to return 
punctually the day after, and pay for what he has 
bought. Tn this promise he is punctual ; and this is 
repeat^ for eight or ten times, till his face is well 
known, and he has got, at last, the character o'' a good 
customer. By this means he gets credit for so;i.ething 
considerable, and then never pays it. 

In all this the young man, who is the unhappy 
subject of our present reflections, was very expert , 
and could face, fineer, and bring custom to a shop, 
with any man in England ; none of his companions 
could exceed him in this; and his companions at last 
said that The.— would be hanged. 

As he grew old, he grew never the better ; lio 



ESSAYS. 373 

loved ortolans and green peas, as before ; he drank 
gravy-soup when he could get it, and always thought 
his oysters tasted best when he got them for nothing, 
or, which was just the same, when he bought them 
upon tick ; thus the old man kept up the vices of the 
youth, and what he wanted in power he made up by 
inclination ; so that all the world thought that old 
The. — would be banged. 

And now, reader, 1 have brought him to his last 
scene ; a scene where, perhaps, my duty should have 
obliged me to assist. You expect, perhaps, his dying 
words, and the tender farewell of his wife and children j 
you expect an account of his coffin and white gloves, 
his pious ejaculations, and the papers he left behind 
him. In this 1 cannot indulge your curiosity : for, 
oh, the mysteries of fate ! The. — was drowned. 

'Reader,' as Hervey saith, ' pause and ponder, and 
ponder and pause ;' who knows what thy own end 
may be? 



ON FRIENDSHIP. 

There are few subjects which have been more written 
upon and less understood, than that of friendship. To 
follow the dictates of some, this virtue, instead of being 
the assuager of pain, becomes the source of every 
inconvenience. Such speculatists, by expecting too 
much from friendship, dissolve the connexion, and by 
drawing the bands too closely, at length break them. 
Almost all our romance and novel writers are of this 
kind ; they persuade us to friendship, which v/e find it 
impossible to sustaiu to the last ; so that this sweetener 
of life, under proper regulations, is, by their means, 
rendered inaccessible or uneasy. It is certain, the best 
method to cultivate this virtue is by letting it, in some 
measure, make itself; a similitude of minds or studies, 
and even sometimes a diversity of pursuits, will pro- 
duce all the pleasures that arise from it. The current 
of tenderness widens as it proceeds ; and two men 
imperceptibly find their hearts filled with good-nature 



374 ESSAYS. 

for each other, when they were at first only in pursuit 
of mirth or relaxation. 

Friendship is like a debt of honour ; the moment it 
is talked of, it loses its real name, and assumes the 
more ungrateful form of obligation. From hence we 
find, that those who regularly undertake to cultivate 
friendship, find ingratitude generally repays their en- 
deavours. That circle of beings, which dependance 
gathers round us, is almost ever unfriendly ; they 
secretly wish the terms of their connexions more nearly 
equal ; and, where they even have the most virtue, are 
prepared to reserve all their affections for their patron 
only in the hour of his decline. Increasing the obli- 
gations which are laid upon such minds, only increaies 
their burden ; they feel themselves unable to repay the 
immensity of their debt, and their bankrupt hearts are 
taught a latent resentment at the hand that is stretched 
out with offers of service and relief. 

Plautinus was a man who thought that every good 
was to be brought from riches ; and, as he was pos- 
sessed of great wealth, and had a mind naturally formed 
for" virtue, he resolved to gather a circle of the best 
men round him. Among the number of his depen- 
dants was Musidorus, with a mind just as fond of 
virtue, yet not less proud than his patron. His cir- 
cumstances, however, were such as forced him to stoop 
to the good offices of his superior, and he saw himself 
daily among a number of others loaded with benefits 
and protestations of friendship. These, in the usual 
course of the world, he thought it prudent to accept : 
but, while he gave his esteem, he could not give his 
heart. A want of affection breaks out in the most 
trifling instances, and Plautinus had skill enough to 
observe the minutest actions of the man he wished to 
make his friend. In these he even found his aim dis- 
appointed ; Musidorus claimed an exchange of hearts, 
which Plautinus, solicited by a variety of claims, could 
never think of bestowing. 

It may be easily supposed, that the reserve of our 
poor proud man was soon construed into ingratitude ; 
and such indeed in the common acceptation of the 



ESSAYS. 375 

world it was. Wherever MusiJcrus appeared, he was 
remarked as the ungrateful man ; he had accepted 
favours, it was said ; and still had the insolence to 
pretend to independence. I'he event, however, jus- 
tified his conduct. Plautinus, by misplaced liberality, 
at length became poor, and it was then that Musidorus 
first thought of making a friend of him. He flevv to 
the man of fallen fortune, with an offer of all he had ; 
wrought under his direction with assiduity ; and, by 
uniting their talents, both were at length placed in 
that state of life from which one of them had formerly 
fallen. 

To this story, taken from modern life, I shall add 
one more, taken from a Greek writer of antiquity : — 
Two Jewish soldiers, in the time of Vespasian, had 
fought many campaigns together, and a participation 
of danger at length bred a union of hearts. They 
were remarked through the whole army, as the two 
friendly brothers ; they felt and fought for each other. 
Their friendship might have continued, without inter- 
ruption, till death, had not the good fortune of the 
one alarmed the pride of the other, which was in his 
prom-otioH to be a centurion under the famous John, 
who headed a particular part of the Jewish malcon- 
tents. 

From this moment, their former love was converted 
into the most inveterate enmity. They attached them- 
selves to opposite factions, and sought each other's 
lives in the conflict of adverse party. In this manner 
they continued for mo-re than two yeais, vowing mutual 
revenge, and animated with an unconquerable spirit 
of aversion. At length, however, that party of the 
Jews, to which the mean soldier belonged, joininp^ 
with the Romans, it became victorious, and drove 
John, with all his adherents, into the temple. History 
has given us more than one picture of the dreadful 
conflagration of that superb edifice. The Roman 
soldiers were gathered round it; the whole temple 
was in flames ; and thousands were seen amidst them 
within its sacred circuit. It was in this situation of 
things, that the now successful soldier saw bis former 



3T6 ESSAYS. 

friend, upon the batllements of the higliest tower, 
looking; round with horror, and just ready to be con- 
sumed with flames. All his former tenderness now 
returned ; he saw the man of his bosom just going to 
perish ; and unable to withstand the impulse, he ran, 
spreading his arms, and cried out to his friend to leap 
down from the top, and find safety with him. The 
centurion from above heard and obeyed ; and, casting 
himself from the top of the tower into his fellow-soldier's 
arms, both fell a sacrifice on the spot ; one being 
crushed to death by the weight of his companion, and 
the other dashed to pieces by the greatness of his fall. 



FOLLY OF ATTEMPTING TO LEARN WISDOM 

IN RETIREMENT. 

Books, while they teach us to respect the interests of 
others, often make us unmindful of our own ; while 
they instruct the youthful reader to grasp at social 
happiness, he grows miserable in detail ; and, attentive 
to universal harmony, often forgets that he himself has 
a part to sustain in the concert. I dislike, therefore, 
the philosopher who describes the inconveniences of 
life in such pleasing colours, that the pupil grows en- 
amoured of distress, longs to try the charms of poverty, 
meets it without dread, nor fears its inconveniences till 
he severely feels them. 

A youth who has thus spent his life among books, 
new to the world, and unacquainted with man but 
by philosophic information, may be considered as a 
being whose mind is filled with the vulgar errors of the 
wise ; utterly unqualified for a journey through life, 
yet confident of his own skill in the direction, he sets 
out with confidence, blunders on with vanity, and 
finds himself at last undone. 

He first has learned from books, and then lays it 
down as a maxim, that all mankind are virtuous or 
vicious in excess : and he has been long taught to 
detest vice and love virtue. Warm, therefore, in 



ESSAYS. 377 

attachments, and steadfast in enmity, he treats every 
creature as a friend or foe ; expects from those he loves 
unerring integrity ; and consigns his enemies to the 
reproach of wanting every virtue. On this principle 
he proceeds ; and here begin his disappointments : 
upon a closer inspection of human nature, he per- 
ceives, that he should have moderated his friendship, 
and softened his severity ; for he often finds the excel- 
lences of one part of mankind clouded with vice, and 
the faults of the other brightened with virtue ; he finds 
no character so sanctified that has not its failings, 
none so infamous, but has somewhat to attract our 
esteem ; he beholds impiety in lawn, and fidelity in 
fetters. 

He now, therefore, but too late, perceives that his 
regards should have been more cool, and his- hatred 
less violent ; that the truly wise seldom court romantic 
friendship with the good, and avoid, if possible, the 
resentment even of the wicked ; every moment gives 
him fresh instances that the bonds of friendship are 
broken if drawn too closely ; and that those, whom he 
has treated with disrespect, more than retaliate the 
injury: at length, therefore, he is obliged to confess, 
that he has declared war upon the vicious half of 
mankind, without being able to form an alliance among 
the virtuous to espouse his quarrel. 

Our book-taught philosopher, however, is now too 
far advanced to recede ; and though poverty be the 
just consequence of the many enemies his conduct 
has created, yet he is resolved to meet it without 
shrinking ; philosophers have described poverty in 
most charming colours ; and even his vanity is touched 
in thinking he shall shew the world in himself one 
more example of patience, fortitude, and resignation : 
' Come, then, O Poverty ! for what is there in thee 
dreadful to the wisel Temperance, health, and fru- 
gality, walk in thy train ; cheerfulness and liberty are 
ever thy companions. Shall any be ashamed of thee, 
of whom Cincinnatus was not ashamed 1 The running 
brook, the herbs of the field, c-an amply satisfy nature; 
man wants but little, nor that little long. Come then. 



378 ESSAYS. 

O Poverty ! while kings stand by, and gaze with ad« 
miration at the true philosopher's resignation.' 

The goddess appears ; for Poverty ever comes at 
the call; but, alas! he finds her by no means the 
charming figure books and his own imagination had 
painted. As when an eastern bride, whom her fiiends 
and relations had long described as a model of perfec- 
tion, pays her first visit, the longing bridegroom lifts 
the veil to see a face he had never seen before ; but 
instead of a countenance blazing with beauty like the 
sun, he beholds deformity shooting icicles to his heart ; 
such appears Poverty to her new entertainer : all the 
fabric of enthusiasm is at once demolished, and a 
thousand miseries rise upon its ruins ; while Contempt, 
with pointing finger, is foremost in the hideous pro- 
cession. 

The poor man now finds that he can get no kings to 
look at him Nvhile he is eating: he finds, that in propor- 
tio I as he grows poor, the world turn? its back upon 
hi: 1, and gives him leave to act the philosopher in all 
ihi.. majesty of solitude. It might be agreeable enough 
to play the philosopher, while we are conscious that 
mankind are spectators ; but what signifies wearing 
the mask of sturdy contentment, and mounting the 
stage of restraint, when not one creature will assist at 
the exhibition 1 Thus is he forsaken of men, while his 
fortitude wants the satisfaction even of self-applause ; 
for either he does not feel his present calamities, and 
that is natural insensibility; or he disguises his feel- 
ings, and that is dissimulation. 

Spleen now begins to take up the man ; not distin- 
guishing in his resentment, he regards all mankind 
with detestation : and, commencing man-hater, seeks 
solitude to be at liberty to rail. 

It has been said, that he who retires to solitude is 
either a beast or an angel : the censure is too severe, 
and the praise unmerited ; the discontented being, who 
retires from society, is generally some good-natured 
man who has begun life without experience, and knew 
not how to gain it in his intercourse with mankind. 



ESSAYS. 379 

LETTER, 

SUPPOSED TO BE WUIITEN BY A COMMON COUNCIIrMAN, 
AT TJSE TIME OF THE CORONATION. 

Sir, — I have the honour of being a common-council- 
man, and am greatly pieased with a paragraph from 
Southampton in yours of yesterday. There we learn 
that the mayor and aldermen of that loyal borough 
had the particular satisfaction of celebrating the royal 
nuptials by a magnificent turtle-feast. By this means 
the gentlemen had the pleasure of filling their bellies, 
and shewing their loyalty, together. I must confess it 
would give me pleasure to see some such method of 
testifying our loyalty practised in this metropolis, of 
which 1 am an unvvorthy member. Instead of pre- 
senting his majesty (God bless him) on every occasion 
with our formal addresses, we might thus sit com- 
fortably down to dinner, and wish him prosperity in a 
sirloin of beef ; upon our army levelling the walls of 
a town, or besieging a fortification, we might at our 
city-feast imitate our br^ve troops, and demolish the 
wails of a venison-pasty, or besiege the shell of a 
turtle, with as great a certainty of success. 

At present, however, we have got into a sort of dry, 
unsocial manner of drawing up addresses upon every 
occasion ; and though I have attended upon six caval- 
cades, and two foot-proccisions, in a single year, yet I 
came away as lean and hungry, as if I had been a 
juryman at the Old Bailey. For my part, JVIr. Printer, 
I don't see what is got by these processions and ad- 
dresses, except an appetite ; and that, thank Heaven, 
we have all in a pretty good degree, without ever 
leaving our own houses for it. It is true, our gowns 
of mazarine blue, edged with fur, cut a pretty figure 
enough, parading it through the streets, and so my 
wife tells me. In fact, I generally bow to all my 
acquaintance, when thus in full dress ; but, alas ! as 
the proverb has it, fine clothes never fill the belly. 

But even though all this bustling, parading, and 
powdering, through the streets, be agreeable enough 
to many of us; yet, I would have my brethren consi* 



S80 KS^AYS 

der whether the frequent repetition of it be so agree- 
able to our betters above. To be introduced to court, 
to see the queen, to kiss hands, to smile upon lords, 
to ogle the ladies, and all the other fine things there, 
may, I grant, be a perfect show to us that view it but 
seldor'd ; but it may be a troublesome business enough 
to those who are to settle such ceremonies as these 
every day. To use an instance adapted to all our 
apprehensions; suppose my family and I should go 
to Bartholomew fair. Very well, going to Bartholo- 
mew fair, the whole sight is perfect rapture to us, who 
are only spectators once and away ; but I am of 
opinion, that the wire-walker and fire-eater find no 
such great sport in all this ; I am of opinion they had 
as lief remain behind the curtain, at their own pas- 
times, drinking beer, eating shrimps, and smoking 
tobacco. 

Besides, what can we tell his majesty in all we say 
on these occasions, but what he knows perfectly well 
already 1 I believe, if I were to reckon up, I could 
not find above five hundred disaffected in the whole 
kingdom ; and here we are every day telling his 
majesty how loyal we are. Suppose the addresses of 
a people, for instance, should run thus: 

' May it please your m -y, we are many of us 

vrorth a hundred thousand pounds, and are possessed 
of several other inestimable advantages. For thp pre- 
servation of this money and those advantages we are 

chiefly indebted to your m y. We are, therefore, 

once more assembled, to assure your m y of our 

fidelity. This, it is true, we have lately assured your 

m -y five or six times; but we are willing once 

more to repeat what can't be doubted, and to kiss youi 
royal hand, and the queen's hand, and thus sincerely 
to convince you, that we never shall do any thing to 
deprive you of one loyal subject, or any one of our- 
selves of one hundred thousand pounds.' Should 
we not, upon reading such an address, think that 
people a little silly, who thus made such unmeaning 
professions 1 Excuse me, Mr. Printer : no man upon 
earth hath a more profound respect for the abilities ol 



ESSAYS. 381 

the aldermen and common-council than I; but I 
cou]"d wish they would not take up a monarch's time 
in these good-natured trifles, who, I am told, seldom 
spends a moment in vain. 

The example set by the city of London will proba- 
bly be followed by every other community in the 
British empire. Thus we shall have a new set of ad- 
dresses from every little borough with but foHr freemen 
and a burgess ; day after day shall we see them come 
up with hearts filled with gratitude, ' laying the vows 
of a loyal people at the foot of the throne.' Death ! 
Mr. Printer, they'll hardly leave our courtiers time 
to scheme a single project for beating the French; 
and our enemies may gain upon us, while we are thus 
employed in telling our governor how much we intend 
to keep them under. 

But a people by too frequent use of addresses may 
by this means come at last to defeat the very purpose 
for which they are designed. If we are thus exclaim- 
ing in raptures upon every occasion, we deprive our- 
selves of the powers of flattery, when there may be a 
real necessity. A boy three weeks ago swimming 
across the Thames, was every minute crying out, for 
his amusement, ' I've got the cramp, I've got the 
cramp :' the boatmen pushed off once or twice, and 
they found it was fun ; he soon after cried out in 
earnest, but nobody believed him, and he sunk to the 
bottom. 

In short, sir, I am quite displeased with any unne- 
cessary cavalcade whatever. I hope we shall soon 
have occasion to triumph, and then I shall be ready 
myself, either to eat at a turtle-feast or to shout at a 
bonfire : and will either lend my faggot at the fire, or 
flourish my hat at every loyal health that may be pro- 
posed. 

I am, sir, &c. 



382 



A SECOND LETTER, 



SUPPOSED TO BE WniTTUN Br A COMMON-COUNCIIrMAN, 
DESCRIBING THE CORONATION. 

Sir, — I am the same common-council-man who tiou- 
bled you some days ago. To whom can I complain 
but to you "! for you have many a dismal correspon- 
dent; in this time of joy my wife does not choose to 
hear me, because, she says, I'm always melancholy 
when she's in spirits. I have been to see the coro- 
nation, and a fine sight it was, as I am told, to those 
who had the pleasure of being near spectators. The 
diamonds, I am told, were as thick as Bristol stones in 
a show glass; the ladies and gentlemen walked along, 
one foot before another, and threw their eyes about 
them, on this side anfi that, perfectly like clock-work. 
O ! Mr. Printer, it had been a fine sight indeed, if 
there was but a little more eating. 

Instead of that, there we sat, penned up in our 
scaffolding, like sheep upon a market-day in Smith- 
field ; but the devil a thing could I get to eat (God 
pardon me for swearing) except the fragments of a 
plum-cake, that was all squeezed into crumbs in my 
wife's pocket, as she came through the crowd. You 
must know, sir, that in order to do the thing genteelly, 
and that all my family might be amused at the same 
time, my wife, my daughter, and I, took two.guinea 
places for the coronation, and I gave my two eldest 
boys (who by the by are twins, fine children) eighteen- 
peuCe a-piece to go to Sudrick fair, to see the court of 
the black Kin^ of Morocco, which will serve to please 
children well enough. ^ 

That we might have good places on the scafTolding', 
my wife insisted upon going at seven o'clock in the 
evening before the coronation, for she said she would 
not lose a full prospect for the world. This resolu- 
tion, I own, shocked me. ' Grizzle,' said I to her, 
• Grizzle, my dear, consider that you are but weakly, 
always ailing, and will never bear sitting all night 
upon the scaffold. You lemember what a cold you 
got the last fast-day by rising but half an hour before 



ESSAYS. 383 

your time to go to church, and how I was scolded as 
the cause of it. Besides, my dear, our daughter Anna 
Amelia Wilhelmina Carolina will look like a perfect 
fright if she sits up; and you know the girl's face is 
something at her time of life, considering her fortune 
is but small.' ' Mr. Grogan,' replied my wife, ' Mr. 
Grogan, this is always the case, when you find me in 
spirits ; I don't want to go, not I, nor I don't care 
whether I go at all ; it is seldom that I am in spirits, 
but this is always the case.' In short, Mr. Printer, 
what will you have on't? to the coronation we went. 

What difficulties we had in getting a coach ; how 
we were shoved about in the mob ; how I had my 
pocket picked of the last new almanack, and my steel 
tobacco-bos; how my daughter lost half an eye-brow, 
and her laced shoe in a gutter; my wife's lamentation 
upon this, with the adventures of a crumbled plum- 
cake ; relate all these ; we suffered this and ten times 
more before we got to our places. 

At last, however, we were seated. My wife is 
certainly a heart of oak ; I thought sitting up in the 
damp nig!)t-air would have killed her; I have known 
her for two months take possession of our easy chair, 
mobbed up in flannel night-caps, and trembling at a 
breath of air ; but she now bore the night as merrily 
as if she had sat up at a christening. My daughter 
and she did not seem to value it a farthing. She told 
me two or three stories that she knows will always 
make me laugh, and my daughter sung me ' the noon- 
tide air,' towards one o'clock in the morninsr. How- 
ever, with all their endeavours, I was as cold and as 
dismal as ever I remember. If this be the pleasures 
of a coronation, cried I to myself, 1 had rather see the 
court of King Solomon in all his glory, at my ease in 
Bartholomew fair. 

Towards morning, sleep began to come fast upon 
me; and the sun rising and warming the air, still in- 
clined me to rest a little. You must know, sir, that 
I am naturally of a sleepy constitution ; I have often 
sat up at table with my eyes open, and have been 
asleep all the while. What will you have on t? just 



884 ESSAxS 

about eight o'clock in the morning I fell asleep. I 
fell into the most pleasing dream in the world. 1 shall 
never forget it ; 1 dreamed that I was at my lord- 
mayor's feast, and had scaled the crust of a venison- 
pasty ; I kept eating and eating, in my sleep, and 
thought I could never have enough. After some 
time, the pasty methought was taken away, and the 
dessert was brought in its room. Thought I to my- 
self, if I have not got enough of venison, I am re- 
solved to make it up by the largest snap at the sweet- 
meats. Accordingly I grasped a whole pyramid ; 
the rest of the guests seeing me with so much, one 
gave me a snap, the otiier gave me a snap ; I was 
pulled this way by my neighbour on my right hand, 
and that way by my neighbour on the left, but still 
kept my ground without flinciiing, and continued eat- 
ing and pocketing as fast as I could. I never was so 
pulled and handled in my whole life. At length, 
however, going to smell to a lobster that lay before 
me, methought it caught me with its claws fast by 
the nose. The pain I felt upon this occasion is inex- 
pressible ; in fact, it broke my dream ; when awak- 
ing 1 found my wife and daughter applying a smelling- 
bottle to my nose, and telling me it was time to go 
home ; they assured me every means had been tried to 
awake me, while the procession was going forward, 
but that I still continued to sleep till the whole cere- 
mony was over. Mr. Printer, this is a hard case, and 
as I read your most ingenious work, it will be some 

comfort, when I see this inserted, to find that 1 

write for it too. 

I am, sir. 
Your distressed humble servant, 

L. Grogan. 



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